Half an Hour a Day Across Massachusetts

276. Westfield: Stanley Park

2011-10-08T11:15:00.000-07:00

Well, well, well, if it isn't my old nemesis, Stanley Park! So, my old friend, we finally meet again.

Back when I was a young naturalist, green, wet behind the ears, immature and stupid, I thought I would take a group of folks from eastern Massachusetts out to Stanley Park to see the black squirrels. It seemed like a slam dunk, and something fun to do. The park opened in 1950, and at that time the designers thought it would be cool to have a signature creature. They went out to Michigan and found some black squirrels (really just gray squirrels with excessive pigmentation) and brought them home. The park became famous for them.

So I gathered up the gang, brought them two hours west and...nothing.

Seven years later, I returned, on this day, to exact my revenge on the little bastards. I was all set. I was going to take the first one that I saw, load up my slingshot with Cocoa Puffs and...wait, there was one. And there went another one. And I could see another one over there. And there was one more behind a tree.

I was surrounded. Black squirrels everywhere I looked. And maybe it was just me being paranoid, but I swear they were looking at me. Plotting against me, as if they knew what was going on in my mind.

I turned and headed for the hills.

275. West Springfield: Mittineague Park

2011-10-08T11:00:00.000-07:00

Norway sprcues always tell you you're somewhere unnaturally planted and maintained in Massachusetts. That's not a judgment, just a statement of fact.

The park here in West Springfield was dedicated in 1935, and it's obvious that some decorating went into the early stages of its design. Norway spruces are typical more of cemeteries. They have a a tall, robust stature juxtaposed by drooping, seemingly sorrowful branches and needles. You don't find them when you're just walking around the woods in the Bay State.

But this park rambles on! I was amazed to find so many habitats - woods, fields, a brook - as I spent my thirty minutes. I could have spent much more.

Two things caught my eye. First, a squashed eastern box turtle on the side of the road in the park. It's always so sad to see. Second, slightly less depressing, blue jays have begun caching. Yes, like small mammals sharing their habitats, blue jays store food for the winter. If you see one carrying an acorn or something similiar in its bill in fall, that's what's happening. They're preparing for cold weather.

Noooooooooo!!!

274. Agawam: Robinson State Park

2011-10-08T10:00:00.000-07:00

(Stretch! Creak! Crack! Yawn!) Another early morning drive across the great state of Massachusetts, and this one dropped me in Agawam at dawn (on September 27).

Once again, there was wetness to be found. But out of the corners of my eyes as I began my walk down the descending road into the park, I noticed something else: the first vestiges of foliage! Fall is always such a rushed time of year for me - back in Marshfield we run our big Farm Day event at the end of the month, and a lot of prep time goes into it - that I often either miss or just forget that I'm looking at the turn of the seasons. But there, on the ground, was the proof. Yellows, mixed in with the greens, indicated change.

This, though, was not the excitement of the morning for me. There was a sign on the entry building that said to look out, that bears had been seen in the area! Whenever my co-leader Carol and I bring a group to Maine to see puffins, we stop on a specific road and talk about its history. When it was laid out, competitors said, "Aw, you don't want to use that road. There's wolves on that road." People reacted not by avoiding it, but saying, "Oh, cool, wolves!"

That was me on this day. Cool, bears!

Didn't see one.

273. Marblehead: Marblehead Neck Wildlife Sanctuary

2011-10-07T13:30:00.000-07:00

And so, the day quieted down. My abbreviated little itinerary, only three towns on this day (September 20), was drawing to a close. Fortunately, it ended in beautiful, historic Marblehead. Unfortunately, it came with the sighting of vandalism to the kiosk at the sanctuary.

The rain never really intensified, for which I was thankful. Typically, I wouldn't give a damn, but I had a meeting to attend, and it would be best were I not trudging into it mightily muddy and superbly sweaty. Oh, I was sweaty, but no more than usual. I walked the trails from end to end and all the way around.

I was alone with the usual gang, chickadees, titmice, nuthatches and wrens. A crow cawed distantly, while three mallards floated on the small pond. The grays overhead robbed the greens of their vibrancy below.

I couldn't help think while I was there about an old colleague, Barbie, who grew up in town. She always reminded me to put the emphasis on "head" and not "MARble" - "Marble HEAD." That's how the locals say it. It's like the people of Concord with Henry David "Thorough." I could go on. Oh, the things I'd heard around Massachusetts this year.

272. Swampscott: Harold King Town Forest

2011-10-07T13:00:00.000-07:00

Onto the home of actor Walter Brennan, Swampscott, Mass.

I put in more than my share of time in Swampscott, futilely looking for the entrance to the park. I remembered what Google said. I even had a map with me showing me where the entrance was. But I couldn't find the stupid thing, or, perhaps more accurately, the Stupid Thing couldn't find it.

But then, Eureka! as Archimedes once said in a bathtub. An old dilapidated sign pointed the way. "Oscar Short Land Conservation Area," it said, the alternate name for the Harold King Town Forest, as far as I could tell. I stumbled down a trail and into the woods, so happy to be free of the local neighborhood (no offense to the neighbors, of course).

I bounded over rocks and roots, face-mashing cobwebs as I went, the first one on the trails for a while it seemed. I heard a loud splash to my right, and realized I'd struck marsh, though I couldn't see it through the dense brush. At first I thought it might have been a deer, but then saw, and heard, another crash from another vantage point. Ducks, many, many ducks, floated on the marsh. Occasionally they goosed each other into flight (can a duck goose a duck?) and a quick resettling a few feet away. Sometimes they moved in groups of goosed ducks.

And then the rain started, in little drops.

271. Nahant: Nahant Thicket Wildlife Sanctuary

2011-10-07T12:30:00.000-07:00

The fall equinox was virtually upon me as I headed the length of the Nahant peninsula to find the thicket, another Mass Audubon wildlife sanctuary. Despite the grayness of the day, with storm clouds threatening, the birds were singing. Breeding was done, and migration was well under way. Some birds don't give up on their dawn chorus - typically the mark of birds attracting mates in spring - until the sunlight tells them the season is over. Even then, there's the odd fact of the sun crossing back over the equator and at some point in the fall producing exactly the same amount of daylight on a given day as there had been during the rush to procreate. Make that fall day 70 degrees and sunny, and you need earplugs while walking through a thicket.

The thicket was smaller than I expected it to be, but, as thickets tend to be, it was dense. I walked through it twice, then walked around it entirely, and still had ten minutes to spare, so I did it all again.

I'm sure I saw the same Carolina wren twice, and the same gray catbirds over and over. Robins moved through the trees in bunches, and starlings overwhelmed the skies from time to time. I could see how this place had become a "migrant trap" in spring, when birds flying north over densely settled areas dive for patches of green seen from above.

That did it. Just thinking of all those warblers made me put Nahant Thicket on the list for next spring. Sigh...I may never see a May Red Sox game again.

270. Melrose: Pine Banks Park

2011-10-07T12:00:00.000-07:00

After I finished my "In Your Face!" dance for Marie, I turned the corner for Melrose. Pine Banks Park! What a find.

As usual, I headed for the highest point I could find. In this case, at the apex of the hill in the center of the park, I found scraggly pines on a rocky ground. The pines were harboring blue jays, as if they were criminals, which, in the eyes of some bird species, they are. Chickadees and goldfinches joined them in making a low level background noise for my walk.

Standing atop the hill and looking outwards across the treetops, I realized I had virtually been there before. It used to be, in the old days - pre-internet - that you could say "virtually" and mean something like "practically" or "almost" ("It was virtually like I'd been there before."). Now "virtually" almost exclusively means otherworldly sensory experience fabricated by means of technology. The old virtual reality had a sense of adventure and imagination. The new one comes with ear buds.

The view from the hill, though, made me think once again to my virtual realms online. If there's one thing computer game designers have perfected, it's landscapes. The scenery, when focused on exclusively, can be breathtaking. I felt like my LOTRO hunter standing in the Trollshaws, as I took it in.

But Pine Banks Park will always have them beat if just for one thing: fresh air. But, then, maybe someday Elmer Fudd's newspaper headline in The Old Grey Hare will come true, and Smellovision will replace Television. If so, I may be the only man outdoors...

269. Malden: Forest Dale Cemetery

2011-10-06T12:30:00.000-07:00

When I first started telling people about this silly little idea, I heard all kinds of snickers, harumphs and even a few "goodonya's." One stood out above all else for its randomness, my friend Marie wishing me luck in one town, Malden. At the time, I was Malden-free, completely uninitiated in the history and culture of the community. What the hell did I know? It could be that the entire town had been paved. Like Northern New Jersey.

I picked out a promising looking cemetery, Forest Dale on Sylvan Street. They didn't sound like paved words to me.

So, when I stood in a sea of Civil War veterans on a shady slope listening to an eastern towhee call from the nearby woods on a sunny day, I nearly passed out. There's only so much sensory input a guy can handle.

I wandered among the stones and found the two that stood out the most. George Harrison (go figure), Medal of Honor recipient: "Served on board the USS Kearsarge when she destroyed the Alabama off Cherbourg, France, 19 June 1864. Acting as sponger and loader of the 11-inch pivot gun during the bitter engagement, Harrison exhibited marked coolness and good conduct and was highly recommended for his gallantry under fire by the divisional officer."

Not too far away rested the remains of Sarah Fuller, who fought another war. From 1879 to 1913 she worked for the Women's Relief Corps, the organization dedicated to caring for the needs of the men of the Grand Army, the Civil War veterans who lived into old age. But she didn't just organize suppers for revenue for downtrodden soldiers; she served as the national president.

Ha! Take that, Marie!

268. Chelsea: Chelsea Naval Hospital Park

2011-10-06T12:25:00.000-07:00

There was the Bunker Hill Monument, and over there was the Prudential Tower. And if I walked far enough around the corner, which I did, I could stand almost directly under the Mystic River Bridge. It was a place of landmarks.

Just across the river sat a tanker, the Overseas Sifnos, flagged in the Marshall Islands. One tree in the park looked as if it had sunk directly downward and settled in at the height of its first limbs.

The site, of course, had history. A hospital, built high on the hill abutting the park, was constructed exclusively for the nation's sailors in the 1830s and remained in service for nearly a century and a half. Among its patients were one past President, John Quincy Adams, and one future President, John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

Today, the hospital and its grounds have mostly been turned over to residential concerns, but it is possible to discern some of that old history as one walks even just the park itself without invading the privacy of the people who live alongside it. I divined what I could as I said my hellos to strangers, and hit several of those awkward moments when I ran into people for the second and third times. You know, when you get stuck saying something like, "What?! You again!" Believe me, you're better off just smiling and nodding. There's less embarrassment all the way around.

And, if you're counting, that's another county down. Buh-bye, Suffolk.

267. Everett: Mystic River Reservation

2011-10-06T12:20:00.000-07:00

An orange line train crashed by as I walked, trundling over a rickety-sounding bridge over the river. In fact, it reminded me of the clack-clack-clack of the ancient roller coaster cars at Paragon Park, which reigned in Hull from 1905 to 1985, up 'til my 14th year. Behind me a shopping mall bustled.

But the catbirds, and there were about a dozen of them, could not have cared less. They played among the sumac and the knotweed with the robins. The blue jays were there, too, but I don't think playing is a good verb for them. Mostly they bitch.

Across the water I spied a marina, with far too many boats sitting dockside for such a beautiful day. Is a boat ever worth the purchase? Can you ever really get your money's worth out of it? The double-crested cormorants and herring gulls flew by without monetary concerns.

By the time I wrapped up my walk, I came away with an unexpected smile. This small stretch of Everett, known recently for its horrible fire when a tanker truck crashed in 2007 and as the site where liquefied natural gas comes into the state, will now forever be known to me as the place where I took that nice walk in the waning days of the summer of 2011.

266. Somerville: Foss Park

2011-10-06T12:15:00.000-07:00

Well, I knew that Somerville wouldn't provide me with the deepest natural experience of the year (on September 12), but it didn't mean I was uninterested in what it had to offer. I found Foss Park.

The park is another urban catch-all, a playground, athletic fields, including a soccer field in serious need of landscaping attention, and a baseball field doing just a little better. There were trees that provided shade and even some wildlife. And I mean this next sentence with all seriousness. The pigeons have to live somewhere.

One marker threw me for a loop. "Route of Middlesex Canal." Here? Through this park? Well, I'll be hornswoggled. It turned out to be true (historical markers are rarely wrong, although they are not 100% foolproof). The canal, which operated for about 50 years from the start of the nineteenth century to 1853, ran 27 miles in length and provided a highway for goods and materials during the height of the Industrial Revolution. This particular section had been filled - Boston's history is of filling wetlands to create buildable land - but much of it remains open today. There's even a historical museum dedicated just to its story, in North Billerica.

So, even in the heart of the city, on a small, well-trodden and urbanized block, surrounded by a steady flow of traffic and its clinging noise, even in a place where the residents looked askance at my approach, Massachusetts surprised me.

265. Wilbraham: Red Bridge State Park

2011-10-06T12:13:00.000-07:00

I really, really wanted to meet the Pesky Serpent. In the southern reaches of Wilbraham there's - supposedly, I couldn't find it - a meadow in which young Timothy Merrick met his doom after the bite of just such a creature. The tale was told in the "Ballad of Springfield Mountain," possibly America's first folk song. I wanted to connect to that land, but couldn't find my way in early in this trip.

So I saved Wilbraham, mentally, for another day. Yet, as I was passing out of Ludlow and into Wilbraham, nature invited me to a small boat launch and some surrounding woods. I hit the brakes and felt the final squish of the boots as I stepped out of my car for one last walk.

I walked toward the sound of rushing water and was surprised to find an old mill building straddling the waterway. My first thought, which was weird, I know, was of how I was glad I wasn't in a kayak. The four openings under the building were barely exposed under the height of the water. Decapitation wasn't the fear, but a good, solid conking on the noggin would certainly be within the realm of plausibility with me at the controls.

In the end, I got my Wilbraham, and even thought about celebrating with a bit of Friendly's Ice Cream, but honestly, I couldn't imagine any restaurant would be happy to seat me after my day in the wilderness of the Pioneer Valley and environs. Instead, I slunk home, like a serpent, and made plans for my final 86 towns.

264. Ludlow: Ludlow Center Cemetery

2011-10-06T12:12:00.000-07:00

Argh. After all the emotional ups and downs of the day, from stinking squids to tornadoes to Vietnam War remembrances, I was up for my final push through the last two towns on my list, Ludlow and Wilbraham.

Truth be told, I had already struck out once in Wilbraham, but I'll tell that story in a minute. Ludlow, though, had promise. It had spunk. It coulda been a contenda. But it was not to be.

I picked out a handful of spots in town that showed potential for a foot-weary traveler to enjoy. But everywhere I turned, there were "no trespassing" signs - even at the entrance to the town forest. So I gave up and found my last resorts, cemeteries.

Drained by my frustration, I barely found the energy to be interested, and were it not for the northern flicker in the Ludlow Center Cemetery, and the curious positioning of two, side-by-side utility sheds that had me wondering about the burial process on the grounds, I might have had nothing to say at all.

263. Chicopee: Chicopee Memorial State Park

2011-10-06T12:11:00.000-07:00

There have been times during my travels that I have broken down to simple solemnity. Emotion drains away and I fall silent. That silence is an inner stillness, for as I walk, I think, heavily.

Mostly these moments come when I'm struck with the stories of fallen veterans.

Why such reverence? Family pride. While my grandfather was of the wrong age to join the fight in World War II, he did work at a local shipyard. He carried his ID card in his pocket for the rest of his life, into the 1990s. My dad, a true hero to me, joined the Marine Corps in 1966, full well knowing he was on his way to Vietnam. It scarred him for life, but he hid it well. That story is yet waiting to be told, and maybe someday will be.

In Chicopee, I stood among his comrades. The park is dedicated to the fallen Vietnam War warriors of the community, fifteen men lost between 1966 and 1970 with the Army, Navy and Marines in that horrid little conflict that changed America in so many ways. A sign bearing all fifteen names was dedicated in a grove of trees planted to represent each of the fifteen. The arrangement of the trees is eerily similar to the statues of the Korean War memorial on the mall in Washington D.C.; it feels as if the trees are a unit spread out and moving toward a destination, each one warily looking into the distance for a hidden enemy.

I've given out kudos jokingly along the way during this little project, but were I authorized to do so, I'd salute the people of Chicopee for a job well done.

262. Springfield: Forest Park

2011-10-06T12:10:00.000-07:00

When I got there, the nature class was already underway. I watched from afar for a while.

I'm no longer in a position to truly care whether or not school is in session. I've been out for twenty years, and my mom, a longtime French and Spanish teacher, retired in the spring. My son is only 2, so we haven't even gone lunchbox shopping yet. And I'll tell you one thing. He's not getting my Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox.

But there it was, a field trip. Our biggee back home on the South Shore was Plimoth Plantation, in the third grade. For these kids, though, there was a bit more hands-on work to be done. They had nets and were standing on the edge of the major pond that dominates Forest Park.

I never saw one swung in anger, though, They milled about, the girls giggling, the boys conniving. There were most likely dragonflies or butterflies about, or perhaps they were heading for some ponding exercises. I'll never know. I steered very wide of the log cabin style nature center they were using, although I wanted desperately to know more about it, architecture geek that I can be at times. Instead, I settled for the mallards and the Canada geese, and the fountains spraying water skyward. And hey, look at that - the rain had stopped again.

What a day.

261. Longmeadow: Fannie Stebbins Memorial Wildlfie Refuge

2011-10-06T12:09:00.000-07:00

I had this old boss named Rick when I was growing up, who was larger than life in the eyes of a teenager. He only had about six jokes, but he delivered them with such gusto and panache, not to mention a constant ear-ringing laughter, that you felt as if you were in the presence of one of the world's most confident, important people. He had this one saying, just two little words, that often heralded his appearance in a room. They were initially words of discovery, used when he found out something ribald or slightly off-color, and wanted to call attention to it. It later became a simple greeting. All day long he had us all smiling and chuckling whenever we bumped into each other in our mad scramble around the video arcade. "Hey now!"

Such were my initial thoughts as I "discovered" Fannie Stebbins. "Hey now!"

Were it not for the rain, which had grew more intense as I approached the trails, I might have had more fun in Longmeadow. The habitat was there. The puddles on the trail, though, were more than just weak depressions. They were deep, wide, edge-to-edge oceans of rain water. I tiptoed along those edges as much as possible, but in the end found it to be an exercise in futility. I stood at the edge of a pond as a flock of Canada geese blasted in with a series of uncoordinated honks, which term could also be used to describe my coworkers and me during my arcade days. Both a hairy and a downy woodpecker laughed at me as I slowly moistened at both ends.

One of the best features of the sanctuary was a water level marker for the famous storms that had inundated the Springfield area. The Hurricane of 1938 was pretty bad, but the winner, at least on this very spot, was the 1936 flood. I've studied it from afar, and know that Coast Guardsmen from my childhood home of Hull responded to the rising waters at the time. Kind of made my ankle wetting today seem a bit of a trifling thing.

260. East Longmeadow: Watchaug Meadow

2011-10-06T12:08:00.000-07:00

There's a story in East Longmeadow that I'd like to chase down, once I get over the trauma of the mosquito bites. And it all has to do with the long history of the town.

It started in the early eighteenth century for East Longmeadow, settled in 1720. Obviously, being an "east" there's a tale of political separation, and that happened in the late 1800s. Now there's a study for you - this town was the 347th of the current 351 to form, older only than Westwood, Plainvillle, Millville, and Massachusetts' youngest community, East Brookfield, formed in 1920. Wouldn't it be fun to randomly pick a year and figure out how many towns there were? This project, for instance, would have been much easier in 1639. Half an Hour a Day on Foot: 23 Towns in 365 Days. Of course, back then, I would probably have had to walk to all of the towns themselves before walking in them. And I'll bet there was a lot more open space back then, too.

But East Longmeadow, with its sandstone quarries, supposedly supplied the raw materials for the construction of the Smithsonian Institution. I ask you, good gentlepeople: how cool is that?

So, someday I'll dive in. Like I did to the trails on this day. And someday I'll truly learn about the proper way to protect oneself from the damaging advances of the insect world. Meadow + humidity + summer = one chewed up wanderer.

259. Hampden: Laughing Brook Wildlife Sanctuary

2011-10-06T12:07:00.000-07:00

I had barely noticed that the rain had more or less stopped in Monson, I was so consumed by the tragic story. When I started on Mass Audubon's Laughing Brook Wildlife Sanctuary trails, the atmosphere re-energized, forming a mist that promised to keep me well slicked for the next half hour, at least.

But what a lyrical place! Hemlocks, witch hazel, stonewalls, a rushing brook to cross and run shoulder-to-shoulder with. A split rock formed a perfect Nike running shoe, when viewed from the right angle. And I found the biggest chicken mushroom I'd seen to date. Don't tell the Italian side of my family. They'll make me go back and get it for preparation as a meal.

Even as I heard the thump-thump-thump of a retreating white-tailed deer, I knew that I had to keep one other notion in mind. This spot once belonged to one of the greatest children's book writers of all time, Thornton Burgess. It was here that he walked the trails examining the squirrels and the other critters of the woods, giving them names and personalities, divining stories that would appear in his books.

Imagine that, somebody being inspired by walking among the trees. Whodathunkit.

258. Monson: Keep Homestead Museum

2011-10-06T12:06:00.000-07:00

It was as horrible as advertised.

I was at home in Weymouth the night the tornadoes struck. There is no stronger feeling of powerlessness than sitting in front of the TV listening to the broadcaster say, "ETA for Weymouth, 16 minutes." It's the randomness, like that of a lightning strike, that instills the fear. It might only take one life, but chances are just as good as the next person's that it would be mine. The line used to be "Smoke 'em if you got 'em." Now it's just a silent resignation to fate.

I stopped at the Keep Homestead Museum and could see the path of the tornado that tore through the town. It was unnerving, tear-jerking. The trees had fallen in the path, a perfect cut through the woods. Two black vultures, as if wishing to add a sense of the macabre to the scene, flew up and over the hill as I took it all in.

I headed onto the trails behind the museum and saw, at first, what I thought was the extent of the damage. I could discern the tornado's path, off to my right. But then, the trail turned, and headed into that area. For the next forty minutes or so, I walked in the path.

The fact that the trail was open at all was utterly remarkable. But it was passable from end to end. One section, known for its Christmas ferns, won't have ferns in a few years. An entire section of forest had been laid bare, and without shade, the ferns probably don't stand a chance. A ten-year study of the plant life of this particular plot would be fascinating - how often do Massachusetts scientists get to study the aftereffects of a tornado in their own backyard? The same goes for the birds. Without their trees, do they return? Piles of chainsawed debris reached well above my head. Pits created by the uprooting of massive trees had filled with water during the morning, making for hundreds of small pools on the hill.

All was not lost, of course, as goldfinches, pewees and woodpeckers flew through the area, still finding food. Life amidst all the death.

I'd never felt so sad while walking in nature, and never pulled for a community I didn't know as much as I pulled for Monson that day.

257. Wales: Norcross Wildlife Sanctuary

2011-10-06T12:05:00.000-07:00

As I stepped into Wales, I began to feel the butterflies in my stomach. I knew I was edging ever closer to the tornado zone. I had purposely waited well into the year so as to avoid the worst struck areas, which included nearby Monson, but, sadly, the hits just kept on coming. Tornadoes in June, a heavy windstorm in late July, Tropical storm Irene in late August, they all targeted this section of the state. Stories had developed of sections of Route 2, farther north, closed indefinitely. State forests and parks were closed, with the same time schedule. If I was truly going to walk all 351, I would have to see these towns at some point.

Wales, though, and specifically the Norcorss sanctuary, were open for business. And what a weird little place it specifically was. Among the many anomalies I found there were a vernal pool, a kettle pond - I thought that was just a coastal plain thing! - a sandplain, pitcher plants and Labrador tea (found in anoxic bogs) and a widespread invasion of stinking squids.

Wait a minute! you may say. I'll believe you when you speak of insectivorous plants and sand-based habitats miles from the state's beaches, but there's no way a squid is in Wales. I am sorry to report it is true.

Stinking squids are mushrooms that travel in wood chip deliveries - the trails here were well-covered in wood chips - and stink. They are technically stinkhorns, and if you're dumb enough to grab one from the ground and put it in your car to show to a friend later in the day, well, I don't want to tell you what the inside of my car smelled like. I mean, what the inside of your car would smell like. If you did something dumb like that.

256. Holland: Quinebaug Woods

2011-10-06T12:04:00.000-07:00

I came up with a theory a long time ago, one that would make Staples proud. It was raining again, this time in Holland. I still didn't care, as it doesn't bother me in the slightest until it becomes obviously unbearable. While a walker in the woods sacrifices some things in the rain, he gains others. As I've said so many times this year, let me explain.

The rain, you see, if it hits during just the right season, is nature's highlighter. I often find that the greens of the understory are never so vibrant as they are during a steady spring or fall downpour. Mist and fog don't make the cut, and tempests, well, I don't walk in many of them. But a good, steady rain, one worth donning a raincoat for, one worth clearing one's pockets of paper goods (books, bird checklists, the list of stuff your wife wants you to pick up at the supermarket after you take ten nature walks in a single day, you know, like that), they bring out the best in the woods. Such a rain fell on this day (September 7).

Of all the sights in the woods on this day - hairy woodpecker and hermit thrush among them - the most spectacular was a mushroom known as a varnish shelf. Already imbued naturally with a rich, red color that seems as if it's been hit with a coat of Minwax fast-drying, the varnish shelf picks up the sheen of water and glows.

A beautiful brook, one that had me wistfully pining for the American dippers I had seen in Colorado and Montana, and the Louisiana waterthrushes I had last seen in Pennsylvania, rushed right at me, but was unable to hold me in perpetuity.

Century Run

2011-10-06T12:03:00.000-07:00

255. West Boylston: Goodale Park

2011-10-06T12:02:00.000-07:00

Once again, the end of a long day of walking stared me in my sweaty face. Eight months down, fewer than one hundred towns to go. I was well ahead of pace.

I found Goodale Park as school was letting out, and as such, felt a bit on edge. The park is near school grounds, and there were a lot of young kids around. The park itself - if I read it correctly - consists of newly-built or refurbished athletic fields, a failed fitness trail and some open space. Although I confined myself to the open space, it's never really good to be the guy walking around near the varsity girls' soccer practice with the binoculars and camera.

But the birds gave me plenty to focus on, so I looked legit, or at least hoped I did, as I didn't want to offend anybody. In actuality, there were only a handful of species, but they were active as heck. Chipping sparrows and eastern bluebirds led the charge, seeking seeds with their youngsters, teaching them how to fend for themselves. As I walked on - oops, that was a field sparrow! - I bumped into a granite marker that designated the bounds of Goodale Park.

It turned out that I had just missed the centennial celebration, marked by extensive improvements to the property by the town. As far as I can tell, it was named for one of the many Aaron Goodales who have called West Boylston home, probably the one who lived from 1851 into the early years of the twentieth century and served as overseer of the poor, chairman of the board of selectmen, and more.

I love it when a town honors their past and the people who built their community. It so rocks.

254. Holden: Eagle Lake Wildlife Sanctuary

2011-10-06T12:01:00.000-07:00

Wow, miraculously, for some reason, I stopped sniffling. Allergies had been pounding my senses all day long, but moments after I stepped into the woods at Eagle Lake, they disappeared.

The sanctuary had its own special layer of sylvanity (how's that for a made-up word?). There was a peaceful brook and at different times I encountered cheery toads and hyped-up chipmunks. I even got to know a few mushrooms, though not in the Groovy '60s kind of way.

There were trees down, and not just the typical blowdowns. These were big, massive, recently-felled by the wind warriors of the forest. It seemed so unfair, to have lived for 200 years and have the end come so violently. Sorry to make such a crass analogy, but it was like the way we lost David Halberstam, the author. A car accident took him, when he should have been allowed to drift into eternal sleep when his time came.

I found one waymarking post with dueling arrows. When viewed from either approach, the arrows made sense. But standing directly in front of the post, if I pointed my camera lens just right, I could make it look like the "Which way did he go? Which way did he go?" cowboy from the cartoons of my youth.

I so totally did it.

253. Paxton: Moore State Park

2011-10-05T11:50:00.000-07:00

Forget everything I just said. Every last word.

I figured that Moore State Park would be just like the rest, and the pathway into the park was proving me right. But then I found the experimental orchard. And I found the rhododendrons.

Rhodies were, at one point, the bane of my existence. As a landscaper I pruned them continually, arguing with people over the efficacy of planting them next to a home. It just makes no sense. They get big fast. They block windows. They give ants and other bugs quick transport into parts of the home they don't think about approaching from the ground. And this whole foundation planting fad only started about 100 years ago, when we had to start hiding gas meters! Get the rhodies away from the house.

So rhodies, not native to our area, are a pretty good sign of human settlement. So, too, are old mills, and my goodness, what a beautful arrangement they have at Moore. Among the many old foundations of the mill town that once thrived here is one building still intact. A short walk down the hill past the rushing water finds a spot called the "Artist Overlook," from which I'm sure thousands of folks have photographed and painted the scene before them: water splashing past the old wooden mill building, which itself is perched at a three-quarters angle.

Yup, I've got so much to learn about Massachusetts.

252. Rutland: Rutland State Forest

2011-10-05T11:38:00.000-07:00

I was entering the Promised Land. No, not Rutland. No, I had broken the plane of the final 100 towns to walk in Massachusetts. It meant nothing, of course. It wouldn't until I crossed the finish line - wherever the hell that would be. What, do you think I've actually planned anything?

I walked up a hill, and realized there was nothing new here, and that in itself was exciting. After 251 walks, I had seen it all, or so it seemed. An old railroad bed. People on bikes, some towing dogs. I found an old maple sugaring bucket, but I could count on my hands and my best friends' hands the number of towns in which I'd seen them already. I found a "Moose Crossing sign." Been there.

I heard a blue-headed vireo. For like the fiftieth time! I thought to myself, in a Napoleon Dynamite-type voice.

It wasn't repetition to me, it was truth. I was finding the heart of Massachusetts. I expected I would still find some surprises along the way - in fact, perhaps by the end of the day - but for that moment I was content in the knowledge that I was accomplishing what I was setting out to do: getting to know my home state in ways I never had before.

251. Oakham: Oakham State Forest

2011-10-05T11:27:00.000-07:00

Oops, scared a frog. Damn, I do that a lot these days.

I found the Oakham State Forest on a newly-paved road. It was so new that I was leaving some of the first tracks on it, bringing dirt from the sides on the bottom of my shoes and staining the otherwise perfectly black surface with a light brown.

I had to. I was like a little kid understanding how a bridge works for the first time. I found the outflow area, a dramatically enclosed, dense pine grove with a stream running right through it. Gorgeous! I then ran back across the street to Foley Pond to see the stepped spillway and the manmade channel directing the water under the road. I ran back to the outflow. And back to the pond. It was a rusty red stream coming from a deep blue pond into a black pine wood.

The only thing that could snap me from my boyish discovery was an unfamiliar sound overhead, or at least an underexercised one in my head. I knew what it was; I just had to find the right connection in my brain to put the species of hawk with the sound I was hearing, a double-whistle.

Ah, got it. Before I even saw the bird, I had two memories pop into my head. One from downeast Maine, one from high atop a mountain pass in Colorado, which, ironically, was a place a broad-winged hawk was not supposed to be. But it was there then, and it was here now, probably not the same one.

250. New Braintree: Evergreen Cemetery

2011-10-05T11:15:00.000-07:00

That mid-day sun was still cooking as I moved onto New Braintree. Without any luck locating open space parcels, I found my third cemetery of the day.

That last sentence should come with a disclaimer. New Braintree is sparsely settled, especially in comparison to the old Braintree, well to the east. There's a lot of space here that is open, beautiful rolling hills and farmlands, but none of it is open space. It's like that time on Taxi when Alex Riga had to warn everybody to not eat the blue berries, because they might not be blueberries.

The cemetery was small, triangular and finite. A wall surrounded it, and I found it odd that there was a plaque that memorialized forever the names of the men who built that wall. Wait a minute, I thought, let me go back and take a look at this thing. I stood at one end and looked straight ahead. That thing was as unwaveringly true as an arrow shot from a taut bow! That was real craftsmanship, and I could see why its makers would be recorded for posterity.

It reminded me of marveling at two old-timers in Hingham who were trimming a hedge at a church. I could not believe how straight, how perfect, they could make it, in not a substantial amount of time. I guess if you've got a steady hand, you've got a steady hand.

249. North Brookfield: Town Forest

2011-10-05T11:03:00.000-07:00

By mid-day, most of the bird activity has quieted down. Some birds go to sleep mid-day, and they, like the Mexicans and the Italians, have it right - why exhaust yourself in the noontime sun? Siesta time!

And so it was quiet when I rolled into the last of the Brookfields. I found a trail on which to walk, and took note of the scarcity of noise, and the powerful smell of the pines around me.

I also found white wood-asters. Their presence told me two things. First, that it was perpetually shady where I was standing. Wildflowers in the woods are odd creatures. Some, like the spring ephemerals, take quick advantage of the early sun before the trees leaf up and get the nutrients they need for the year in that short period. Others, like white wood-aster, wait until August to even throw their flowers out, more of a field or meadow plant's gig.

Second, it told me that where I was standing was usually pretty dry, as that's the habitat this particular plant likes. But that was not nearly the case today. They would be in force for the next month or two, a dominant plant in dry forests around Massachusetts. I'd probably meet many more.

248. West Brookfield: Rock House Reservation

2011-10-05T10:53:00.000-07:00

Yeah, baby, now we're talking.

My love affair with big rocks continues to flourish and grow with each passing day. Every once in a while I find a place like this one, where I can let my love fly, like a bird on the wing, and let my love bind me to all living things. Thank you Bellamy Brothers.

I was, though, duped. I followed the map to the spot where the Rock House was supposed to be - you know, past Carter Pond, past the tent caterpillars, past the gray tree frogs trilling from the...trees - but thought I had found it, when I hadn't. I reacted like Homer Simpson when he got a huge beer placed in front of him in Australia. "Well...it's pretty big...I guess." Then I turned the corner and my heart jumped. It was the Rock House!

Without placing myself in the middle of it - what I considered the living room - I couldn't take a picture to justifty its grandeur. I felt puny as I looked up at the mass above me. One of the rocks looked like it could easily just slide right over on its side and crush me in an instant, but it had been there for so long, I doubted it would pick today to make its move.

I was in rocky heaven (not Rocky Heaven, where Sylvester Stallone will be some day). By visiting this site, it meant that I had been to both Rock House and House Rock, in Weymouth. Long live erratics! At least until the next Ice Age.

247. Brookfield: Quacumquasit Wildlife Management Area

2011-10-05T10:41:00.000-07:00

That corn is as high as an elephant's eye and it's well past the Fourth of July! Harvest it!
Birders often get excited when they see crops growing - crops produce seeds, seeds attract birds - but in this case, here, today, there was no real avian excitement. There were exactly four bird species nearby, song sparrows and American goldfinches, both of which were hanging out near the cornfield's edge, and distant blue jays and American crows, unnecessarily squawking, at least in my opinion.

Sometimes, though, the crop thing can work in the wrong direction. A small kitchen garden, for instance, might attract a bluebird, an evening grosbeak, or something like that. But a thousand acres of grain could bring in swarms of blackbirds, which, for the birders, are nice, but for the farmer, are pests. Too much of a good thing can be too much of a bad thing. Part of the problem for farmers during the Depression was the swarms of insects that found and grew fat - and populous - on monotonous crops that fed them well.

Such is not the problem here in Brookfield. This section of the town is dominated by open spaces connected to the Quabog River, Quabog Pond and Quacumquasit Pond. Unfortunately, though, there is a problem, an invasion of Eurasian watermilfoil. If you had an aquarium as a kid, you probably had some of the feathery-looking stuff. In ponds and lakes it forms mats that shield other plants from sunlight, changing the ecosystem. Ugh. Yet another invasive.

But then there's corn. Good old corn, the stuff of Pilgrim legend. There's a plant you can sink your teeth into.

246. East Brookfield: Quabog Pond

2011-10-05T10:07:00.000-07:00

Well, this little storm we had certainly did its share of damage. News came in from as far away as Vermont and central New York about flooding and other problems, so I guess I shouldn't be so surprised about high water levels out here by Worcester, considering how badly damaged the eastern part of the state was.

Shore Road was washed out, so I just got out and walked right there. I passed by a broken down house with a small boat named the Footloose - how a propos for 2011, as the movie has been remade (as if it ever had to be!) - and listened to the unrelenting sound of crickets. Water swirled in dancing eddies as I looked skyward to find the most bizarre looking plane I've ever seen, and believe me, I've examined quite a few in my time.

I had no way to judge how deep the water was, or, should I say, how different it was today from the way it was a week ago. I could see that fishing was pretty popular, going by the number of bobbers wrapped around the powerlines.

A fisherman approached and started casting from the road. Why not? There wouldn't be any cars through here for days. I asked him how high it was and he responded, wearing his tie dye concert t-shirt unironically, by pointing to a spot six feet below the surface and saying, "That's where I usually stand."

Yeesh.

245. Spencer: Spencer State Forest

2011-10-05T09:51:00.000-07:00

The way I see it, I'm up for honorary membership in the Spencer Snowbirds. But we'll see how things turn out.

In my continued study of Worcester County today I found the state forest and began my muddy walk, only to find that much of the trail was under assault. Branches, limbs, small trees, thrown haphazardly about by a lady named Irene, crossed the trail at numerous points. Although I spent thirty minutes here, I didn't get very far. I spent most of my time cleaning the trail - taking the burden off the Spencer Snowbirds, who have claimed the task as volunteers.
That's OK, no need to thank me. But you can send the patch to my name at Mass Audubon...

Seriously, though, it was wonderufl to see such community engagement in open space. And that is a huge key to its success as a concept, user buy-in and, well, parental commitment. Love and care for the land like it's your child, and it will live forever. In this case, the users are snowmobilers. In a perfect world, power-driven machines are kept entirely out of natural environments, but at some point down the line, the land owners decided to allow it here. Thankfully, the group that has grown up around snowmobiling in this part of the state has taken stewardship seriously. Without the land, they have nowhere to practice their pastime. The same goes for hunters, birders, fishermen and more.

Have fun, Snowbirds!

244. Leicester: Pine Grove Cemetery

2011-10-05T09:39:00.000-07:00

I found Russell Park, and it wasn't what I thought it would be, so I skedaddled. I found a cemetery that looked like it had a good, thick forest behind it, and took my chances.

And there I found the sad tale of Julia Julia.

No, not Julia Gulia. That would have been the name of the Drew Barrymore character in The Wedding Singer had she married the Matthew Glave character instead of falling in love with the one played by Adam Sandler. This was, in fact, two Julias born to a Clapp family. One died in infancy, so they named the next one after her, who also died very young. That ended this particular Clapp family's usage of the name Julia.

I decided, after divining that saga, to poke and prod at the back wall of the cemetery. There had to be a way into the woods beyond! It was a perfectly wet day, and I just knew that if I broke the wall down I would find treasures within that piney realm. Bingo! I shouted aloud, thankful that no living soul was around to hear it, lest they think I was playing the game with the dead.

I found a trail and started walking, dodging a few downed trees here and there, recent casualties of tropical storm Irene. But I hit the final, impenetrable barrier: no trespassing signs. Aw, shucks.

But all was not lost. A barred owl called, "Who cooks for you?" See, I knew there had to be more to this place!

243. Auburn: Worcester Hebrew Cemetery

2011-10-05T09:18:00.000-07:00

Let me just say this about the Jews...

Oo, dangerous way to start a paragraph. But let me say this: they like their tombstones tall, if the cemetery in Auburn is at all reflective of the rest of the culture.

And they like to laugh. My favorite marker was for a woman who had died at 98 years old with the epitath "An Untimely Demise." How's that for going out with a bang?! And I say this all with true respect and admiration for my Jewish friends. I grew up in a town with a strong Jewish community, and have always been amazed by their commitment to their faith, and to the strength of their own community.

That said, the cemetery tells more than jokes. Among the Katz, Cohen, Silverman, Levy and Feldman stones are many more that I will probably never be able to read. They're in Hebrew, and only Hebrew, names, dates and I don't know what else. I've seen a few around the state in French, but not much more than that in foreign languages. They probably date back to the earliest immigrants fleeing the pogroms at the beginning of the twentieth century, but I can't tell you for sure.

What I can tell you is that the cemetery is surrounded by some excellent wildlife habitat, thickets full of catbirds, a nearby pond, a powerline crossing a railroad track.

When I die I want my family to look at it like the family of Rose Pelletz Cohen. Get one last laugh out of the story of my life! Perhaps, if I outlive the average American male's life expectancy, we can go with "A Timely Demise."

242. Oxford: Huguenot Fort

2011-10-05T09:03:00.000-07:00

You know, where the Huguenots built their fort.

Isn't this state amazing?

Everywhere I turn (as I did today, on August 31), I find something new - a bird, a butterfly, a memorial, a bit of history I never knew happened. And the connections are incredible. John Eliot and the praying Indians of the Natick area visited the area in 1656. Isaac Bertrand DeTuffeau brought a settlement here in 1686, which was then abandonded, resettled in 1699, abandonded in 1704, and finally settled by the English in 1713.

At one point, there was a 30x18 blockhouse here, designed not for comfort, but for safety from Native American attacks, the legacy of King Philip's War being fear that the natives could strike at any time. We know that because of archaeological digs conducted in the area, with one survey being completed by Oliver Wendell Holmes' father in 1819.

There's nothing like starting a dewy morning with a smile upon your face, placed there by the discovery of something you never knew existed, right under your own nose. Now, if only I could figure out how to pick the right shoes in the morning, so my feet aren't completely soaked within the first half hour of what was supposed to be a double-digit-town day.

I squished happily on.

241. Arlington: Menotomy Rocks Park

2011-09-10T11:54:00.000-07:00

I looked at the map and decided that due to the postage-stamp size of the place, I might have to walk the trails at Menotomy Rocks Park twice to get in a half hour, which would be good. It would give me extra time to figure out what a Menotomy was.

I am an idiot.

I started out by Hills Pond, and wound around its edges. Up into the woods I went, and started to realize that my eyes were deceived by the map. Menotomy Rocks Park - named for the early name of Arlington and the rocks that dominate the park - was much bigger in practice than theory. For that, I was glad.

And what a band of merry-goers was here today! Two girls played on a huge rope swing dangling from a supporting tree. Moms and dads watched over bands of kids climbing the rocks mostly for acknowledgment from their parents. A young boy fished in the pond while his mom sat nearby reading a book, supportive of her son's pusuits, but also thankful for the few moments of escape she could get from diving into frivolous fiction. Benches throughout the park offered views, of woods, of water, of rocks.
Vandals had struck here in the past, but I decided that I was just glad they weren't followed by the Goths and Visigoths (that's my second Ancient Rome joke this year, and, I promise, my last). I left with a wonderful amount of appreciation for all that the Friends of Menotomy Rocks Park had done to create and maintain this special place.

240. Watertown: Dr. Paul Dudley White Bike Path

2011-09-10T11:40:00.000-07:00

Now that I think of it, I suppose I should have expected more from a town named Watertown, and should not have been surprised by the passage of boats on the waterway to my left as I walked.

I definitely have a blank spot in my knowledge of certain parts of the state, although I'm taking on a little project this year to try to correct that problem. Perhaps you've heard of it.

The bike path I followed followed the Charles River. I was dinged off the path by a woman on a bike with a nasty little bell she seemed to constantly be ringing annoyingly. I hadn't been thinking about boats when I saw the first one approaching me from behind out of the corner of my eye. Whoa! A boat? Out here? Say it ain't so!

It so.

The path eventually opened up to a wide vista of the river, and I could see that the lone boat was not a lone boat. There were other small cabin cruisers heading in the same direction, upriver, under Route 20. Coming out from under the bridge, kayakers and scullers slowed to deal with the wakes of the larger boats before continuing on. Soon, full rowing teams stroked into view. The Charles was alive and rocking.

Hmm, Watertown. Now I get it.

239. Brookline: Larz Anderson Park

2011-09-10T11:29:00.000-07:00

Finally, a return to the scene of the crime.

No one was ever charged for the crime, and no one ever actually committed it. But I was definitly the victim. A few decades ago - and let me state here and now that I never thought I would be old enough to say those words in relation to my own life - my mother brought our little family to Larz Anderson Park. I had no idea where it was. I just knew it as a place of slides and baseball fields and kites and Weaver batter-dipped chicken drumsticks.

The last time we were there was the last time I was there, and it ended traumatically for a seven-year-old. I was wearing my new straw cowboy hat, purchased, I believe, at Six Gun City in New Hampshire. I was standing near the backstop of the baseball field, simply playing, being a kid, when the bees attacked. Two of them stung me simultaneously on the side my head, very close to my left eye. I dropped the hat and ran for my mom, crying uncontrollably as I went. She magically produced ice and starting the hugging and healing process.

Meanwhile, my brother, all of 5, ran toward the scene of the disaster. He returned with my hat and a story of beating up two kids who tried to walk away with it, although we were clearly the only people in the entirety of the park. No wonder he became a cop.

So here I was, back to see the park for the first time in more than 30 years. The Boston skyline loomed over the ridge in the distance, willow trees dangled over ponds with fountains tumbling and the auto museum stood atop the hill.

I didn't remember any of it.

238. Boston: Boston Nature Center

2011-09-10T11:19:00.000-07:00

If there's one thing I enjoy about walking Mass Audubon's trails, it's spying on my colleagues. Let me explain.

Public programming for naturalists can be a challenge. Think about it! How many people do you think will come back week after week to a wildlife sanctuary or nature center to learn about the world around them if there was no pizzazz in the presentation, no hook to bring them back in? Anybody can throw together a catalog of programs and hope for the best, but it's those folks who watch trends, understand the competition and market accordingly who attract the best crowds. Even then, it's a matter of message delivery. But that's another story.

So, at Mass Audubon's Boston Nature Center (on August 24), I put on my spy goggles. I reached for program catalogs and watched the way staff interacted with the kids gathered for the day's programs. I examined bilingual signs in the woods on the trail, and thought about how I would interpret this place if I was an educator here and not in Marshfield. I'll admit it. I stole some ideas from them. But that's a good thing. We're lucky, being a statewide system, to have so many fantastic, dedicated educators working together, so far apart, willing to share our best practices. I only hope they all know they can steal from me any time they want.

On the trail, on the grounds of the old state mental hospital, a muddy brook ran past me on my left as the leaves on the trees suddenly turned upwards with a gust of wind. Was rain on the way? Eh, even if it washed me out, it had already been a great day.

237. Gosnold: Penikese and Cuttyhunk

2011-09-10T11:06:00.000-07:00

Aha, my ace in the hole.

I'm privileged in my fulltime work to have the opportunity to share a specific bank of my own personal knowledge. I lead trips - sometimes two, sometimes just one per year - to Cuttyhunk and Penikese Islands at the end of the Elizabeth Islands chain off Woods Hole and Falmouth. Since the rest of the Elizabeth Islands are privately held, it's the only way to visit the tiny town of Gosnold.

The islands are a study in contrasts. Cuttyhunk has a sizable population, relatively, numerous homes, some even year-round, and a harbor filled with boats of all sizes in summer. Penikese is a former leper colony and until very recently hosted a school for boys that was off-limits to the general public.

We visited both on August 21, my co-leader Ian and I, interpreting the histories of both islands, sharing everything we had about these two special places. We walked on Penikese to the spot where the leprosarium began, where Louis Agassiz held his naturalist training courses, where the lepers were buried; we walked on Cuttyhunk to Barges Beach, to the town center, up to the top of Lookout Hill.

For this project, it was an all-day adventure to mark off one town out of 351, but I'd do it all again. And on September 11, I will.

236. Methuen: Nevins Bird Sanctuary

2011-09-10T10:54:00.000-07:00

I finally reached my destination for the day, the little bat-shaped town of Methuen. The library would be so happy.

I found the Nevins Bird Sanctuary pretty quickly and readily, thanks to pictures I had seen of it on the internet. To enter, I had to walk down a set of railroad tracks, over a bridge through which I could see the water below.

Unfortunately, I spent most of my time on the phone. I was double-booked for the evening, a meeting on the South Shore and a lecture on the North Shore, so I took in the former via conference call.

And so it was that I was on the phone when my fourth snake of the day decided to make a slither for it. My heart jumped when I heard the movement at my feet and knew it was definitely not a garter snake. Nope, much bigger. I high-stepped, practically dropped the phone, and watched as a water snake, easily two feet long, sprinted for the edge of the small bridge and dove into the water. It looked like someone had pushed a stick out over the edge of a cliff and let it drop when gravity deemed it was time. The snake tilted like a seesaw and dropped into the water with a loud splash. Through it all, I could not say a word. I watched as it swam away, unable to work my camera with my phone in one hand.

From what I could see of it, and sight was the main sense I could dedicate to it, the sanctuary was full of bird life, from white-breasted nuthatches to belted kingfishers. Soon, I left the meeting, left the sanctuary, remembered everything I had ever known about lighthouses, changed my clothes and went to the Nevins Memorial Library to talk before a crowd. No one there ever knew what my day had entailed. To them I looked as fresh and crisp as if I'd just stepped out of the shower and put on my fancy lecturin' clothes.

It was my reverse superhero moment. I had changed from The Wanderer back to Clark Kent, mild-mannered maritime historian, able to leap water snakes in a single bound.

235. Haverhill: Winnekenni Park

2011-09-10T10:39:00.000-07:00

Well, all of Rome was at the baths today! I had never seen so many cars parked in one area related to an open space parcel. Not everybody was walking the woods, but many, many were. It's obvious that Winnikenni is a community gem.

Wildlife usually stays at bay during these times, opting to hide or skulk or retreat when humans overwhelm the landscape (others acclimatize and accept handouts). Chimney swifts flew overhead and a few Canada geese honked over the water of Kenoza Lake, but they were pretty well otherwise alone.

And who could blame them? At one point I was walking on the wide trail, staying well to one side to accomodate two young women approaching from the other direction. We exchanged hellos and I was instantly hit smack in the face with a blast of fruity perfume. PHEW! My immediate thought, as I trued to regain full consciousness, was of the 8-foot, 2-second rule publishers use when designing their covers for their books. It has to catch you as you glance at the shelf walking by in a book store, from eight feet away for two seconds.

If it had that affect on me, what would it do to a chickadee? Luckily, I'll never have to know. Heck, I rarely even wear deoderant. Just ask my wife.

234. Merrimac: Lake Attitash

2011-09-10T10:29:00.000-07:00

Hmm, there was something strange about the town logo for Merrimac, especially when placed next to the one from Amesbury. A covered carriage, faing to the left, without a horse, rimmed by the name of the town and its incorporation date.

There is, of course, an easy explanation. Amesbury and Merrimac were both once part of Salisbury, but broke away together in 1666. Then in 1876, on the one hundredth anniversary of our fight for independence from the tyranny of England, West Amesbury broke awayfrom the tyranny of Amesbury (really just an economic thing as the village had reached self-sustainability) and became Merrimac.

None of that helped me in my search for open space today. I tried to get into the Indian Head Park and Wells Site, but found a big closed sign on the way in. So, I did what I've often done in Massachusetts this year, I headed for the water. I found Lake Attitash, and walked around the neighborhood adjoining the boat launch area, which included a protected wetland. In all, it was a nice break from the humidity of the woods.

233. Amesbury: Amesbury Town Forest

2011-09-10T10:20:00.000-07:00

Oh, the woods, the woods! Eight towns in, I didn't want this day to end.

I wandered down to a powerline that runs through the Amesbury State Forest, and immediately turned back. Been there and done that today, and numerous times in the past. Not that there's anything wrong powerlines, as I've stated before. I just knew there was more to find in the woods.

First of all, there was plenty of red squirrel scaring to do. I didn't set out to do it, I wasn't planning on making any squirrel uncomfortable, but apparently I'm just what the red squirrels think of when they tell their youngsters about monsters. But I often wonder about their senses. Gray squirrels hide on the other side of the tree at a human's approach. Red squirrels stand their ground and start squawking, and they're half the size of the grays.

As that little game played out around me, a squeak, a jump and a squawk, I moved to Char's Hillock and to the intersection of Lion's Brook, Skunk Cabbage and Ashley Brook. And I could see that Bear Wall wasn't far away. I meandered, taking them all in.

As I walked, a bug flew inches from my face, causing me to lurch, but not swat. I looked towards its destination and saw where it was going. A bald-faced hornet's nest. I stood back and looked through my binoculars, but decided not to linger. Stings are not my thing. Luckily, for me, it had rained recently. When things are dry late in the summer and bees - bald-faces are technically yellowjackets - can't find food, they get very aggressive and can sting multiple times. Believe me, I know. The lushness of the forest allowed them to concentrate on their needs, and not turning their wrath on me. I took the opportunity to escape while they were distracted.

232. West Newbury: Mill Pond Area

2011-09-10T10:05:00.000-07:00

Well, now I have seen everything.

I had to see a few more things before I could officially make that statement. I set off down the trail, past an old building that reminded me of pictures I'd seen of old boat clubs from the 1920s and 1930s. I walked past a sign that I had to stop and read twice: "Horse & Dog Wading Area 500 ft. south." Huh? Are they serious?

So I walked, 500 feet south to the foot. And there it was, another sign telling me that I'd made it. But without horses and dogs around, I couldn't really make any call as to the sign's validity. So I walked on, knowing I'd be coming back this way.

Out on the water, a woman in a kayak had two yelping, swimming dogs sharing her day with her. She passed from my sight, briefly, as I entered the woods, though the dogs were certainly audible at all times. They were offset by eastern wood-pewees that seemed to be forming a communication chain through the woods, like one car alarm setting off another. I wandered through the beautiful little patch of forest for what seemed like hours, stopping once every few moments to admire another view.

As I headed back toward the wallowing area, I took note of a particularly well-endowed young woman with a chocolate lab (author's note: I've prided myself on my powers of observation and accurcacy in reporting, and do not see any reason to change my style now. It was definitely not a black lab). A few bounding steps, and the dog was in the water, turned to face its owner, who had a tennis ball at the ready.

Yep, that was some good wading that dog was doing.

231. Groveland: Veasey Memorial Park

2011-09-10T09:53:00.000-07:00

I was only in a play once, and it wasn't even a live performance. Several members of my senior class wanted to do a taped performance based on a work by Mark Twain and they needed one more body, someone to play...Mark Twain. They dressed me up in a white suit, powdered up a white wig and slapped a droopy white mustache on my face and nudged me out on stage. I only had one line to deliver.

Those memories came back to me at Veasey park in Groveland. I walked through the woods, down a hill and into a gorgeous little pine grove, called...the Grove. There had been a recent small campfire, and out on the water of the adjoining pond I could see four men in a small boat, fishing. The sun was shining, there was no traffic noise, and the few birds that were still active - a downy woodpecker, two tufted titmice and a white-breasted nuthatch accompanying the ubiquitous chickadees - were chattering softly in the background.

It was at that moment that my line came back to me. And I did exactly what it called for.

"I set still and listened."

I love summer in Massachusetts.

230. Georgetown: Georgetown-Rowley State Forest

2011-09-10T09:46:00.000-07:00

My frog-scaring ritual continued. As I walked into the Georgetown-Rowley forest I came across more puddles - in the middle of the trail, mind you, where I'm supposed to be, and not the frogs - and sent more and more of the little green monsters splashing into the muddy abysses.

Catching a patch of sunlight, I came across a spectacular little dragonfly, the ruby meadowhawk, or as my friend David calls it, the Sympetrum rubicundulum. No, he's not from ancient Rome. He just had the misfortune of getting to know dragonflies before anybody decided to give them easily memorable names in English. When we're out on the trails together, doing dome odes work, I'll point one out. "David - common white-tail?" And he'll shout back, "How do I know? It's Plathemis lydia, if that helps."

So I did my act-like-a-tree-and-stand-wicked-still routine and began to stalk the dragonfly. I looked around before each step to be sure I wouldn't spook any more snakes and finally grabbed my shot. Yes! My first ruby meadowhawk photograph. I figure I can file it under "R" for both ruby and rubicundulum, and keep everybody happy.

229. Ipswich: Willowdale State Forest

2011-09-10T09:36:00.000-07:00

With Saugus, Lynn and Lynnfield out of the way, I shot to the northeast a bit to continue my quest. Ultimately, I had plans to reach Methuen. I had to. The library was expecting me. More on that later.

A few feet down the trail, I did it again, spooked another snake. A few feet beyond that, I found a dead field mouse, and wondered if they were somehow connected. I took my hat off my head and realized it weighed about a pound from sweat. The library wouldn't like that. I kept walking anyway.

There was no denying it was summer, sweat aside (I can generate that much sweat in mid-December. Just put a snow shovel in my hands and watch my smoke). No, there were other clues. Chipmunks were scooting around everywhere, and had quickly become the most dominant species of the day for me. Green frogs burped from the woods, and I spied a pond down to my left that was so thick with green scum that I had peripherally mistaken it for forest floor. A deer bounded away upon seeing me (not that that is a particularly summer phenomenon). The sweet pepperbush was in bloom everywhere, giving the forest a fragrance that would last for a few short days.

At one point I wandered around a large puddle, listening to the frogs squeak and splash upon my appearance into their glade, and found myself at the edge of an enormous swamp. To my right, a Canada warbler sang. A great blue heron flew off a branch and disappeared deeper into the swamp.

When I turned to leave, I spooked another garter snake! Geez! Sometimes, they're so big, their noise makes you jump. I was getting to that point.

228. Lynnfield: Kallenburg Quarry

2011-09-10T09:25:00.000-07:00

As much as I enjoy a good statue or a revered piece of stone architecture, quarries make me sad. Believe it or not, I don't get heartbroken over a tree being cut down, at least not on the small scale. Yes, denude several acres, and you've lost a friend in me, but lose a tree to a storm, cut one down and replant two more, and it's all good. Trees have finite lives anyway, and can be replaced. But when we blast a ledge to create additional parking spaces at a restaurant, we're permanently altering nature. That rock isn't growing back.
The old quarry land in Lynnfield features a stand-alone fireplace, with no house around it, and then trails to a powerline that puts one almost on top of the world, at least as far as coastal Massachusetts goes. I found a rock upon which to sit atop the hill, and took in my surroundings. At my feet was a coast and geodetic survey marker. the powerlines, which looked like parallel ski lifts, reached down to a major, slow-moving highway, and for a brief moment, I felt sorry for every person in every one of those cars - and that is a remarkable achievement for a Massachusetts driver who has to share the roads with them all on a regular basis.

In the distance, I could see a bright blue pond. The green areas around it, and spreading as far as the eye could see, were covered with goldenrod. I could have sat and watched for hours.

Back in the woods, I spooked a snake, apparently out to get some sun after all the rain of the past few days. I then noticed some odd graffiti on a flat wall of rock. Someone had drawn a perfect representation of an AT-AT, one of those huge four-legged walking robots from The Empire Strikes Back. Hmm, Star Wars graffiti, three decades after the movies came out.

There's a lot I'll never understand about Lynnfield. But I sure was glad to visit.

227. Lynn: Great Woods Reservation

2011-09-10T09:14:00.000-07:00

Another Great Woods? I thought the one down in Mansfield was the only one we had. And another Walden Pond? Ok, who came first, the chicken or Henry David Thoreau? I'm so confused.

Best way to beat that? Go for a walk! I headed up the trail at the Great Woods Reservation in Lynn, avoiding the ditches created in the gravel by the recent rains. It meant a lot of wandering the trails from side to side, but I eventually got where I wanted to go.

And that was never really a primary stated goal, having a destination. I had no idea where I was going. I was just walking until I saw a sign that said "tower." Hmm, I thought, I dig towers, as I watched a chipmunk scurry up a tree and disappear inside it.

I was not disappointed. From the top of the tower I could the Boston skyline, Revere Beach, and a half dozen water towers above the trees to the west. I also picked out an old fire tower that was obviously no longer in use, as its ladders didn't reach anywhere near the ground. That's when my phone rang. I booked a date to give a lecture, then began the walk down the hill, which was not nearly as strenuous as the one up to the tower. An idea then struck me, my next book idea: Half an Hour a Day on Foot: Just the High Points. Oh, the possibilities...

226. Saugus: Breakheart Reservation

2011-09-10T08:58:00.000-07:00

So it's August 16th. I'm back from Montana, it's been raining for two days, and I'm on antibiotics for a virus I somehow picked up over the last weekend. Must mean it's time to go to Saugus.

I still haven't figured out how to predict my state parks experiences in Massachusetts. It seems that there have to be political pushes and pulls at work. Some parks are neglected, shut down, forgotten, perfectly delightful places where Massachusetts residents should have the right to walk, to hike, to swim, closed because of apparent budgetary issues. Then, I find places like Breakheart, uniformed staff up front and visible, open trails, frequently refreshed bulletin boards and clean facilities. Is it proximity to Boston, or is it simply proximity to large blocks of influential voters?

The constant hum of a television news truck faded into the distance as I walked away from the parking area and into the woods, and away from all thoughts of politics - thank god. I heard my favorite frying beetles again (cicadas singing, and not what my mother always told me they were; it took me until I was 40 to question her definition). The main trail, paved, wound between hills covered with loose, large rocks and under young trees that bent over the road in a reach for sunlight. Croaking green frogs called from what were obviously wet places beyond the walls of the trees.

I usually don't care for paved roads through the woods, but I have to admit, under the circumstances - the rain, the allergies, the virus - it was nice to get an easy start to what would be an eleven-town day.

225. Boxford: Boxford State Forest

2011-09-10T08:43:00.000-07:00

For many birders on the South Shore, the Boxford State Forest is known as the first stop on the "Century Run." That's a cute name for a "Big Day," which is a cute name for trying to score 100 bird species in a single day. I always found it funny that Soth Shore birders felt they had to go to the North Shore to see that much variety, but hey, what the heck did I know.

So they stop, listening for owls in the Boxford State Forest. My first experience here was to hear not an owl, but my first ever winter wren, which, if you haven't heard one, is a breathtaking experience. And not like the Doctor at the beach house thought Elaine was breathtaking on Seinfeld, but in the literal sense. They sing for 5 to 10 seconds, and here in the east they sing approximately 16 notes per second! You have to wonder how this tiny bird, weighing no more than 2/5 of an ounce, can hold on for so long.

But that's in spring, when mates are on the loose. My walk today in Boxford featured the American goldfinches, black-capped chickadees and cedar waxwings that seem to be everywhere in Massachusetts these days. It also involved sunshine, a small pond, broken glass, "no swimming" signs and wondering where I could sign up for the next "Century Run."

223 & 224. Andover and North Andover: Harold Parker State Forest

2011-08-15T09:18:00.000-07:00

I still don't think I truly know what all the sounds are that comes from the trees in Massachusetts in summer. There's a single daytime sound that you can't miss that I guess I've just taken for granted. It's a long, metallic buzz that has a slightly musical quality to it. It rings out loud and proud.

I was always told that it was a beetle. More specifically, I was told that it was a beetle burning in the heat. Like so much else about the natural world in my youth, I socked that info away into the deep, dark recesses of my mind and just let it fester, right next to the cobwebs and the pictures of girls in bikinis that take up most of my brain matter.

Yet here it was again in Andover and North Andvor, a full hour of it playing over the sound of a single eastern wood-pewee. My mind dropped the bikinis for a second (haha) and came out of its fog long enough to take note, and get frustrated. What? Me, not know something? Impossible!

I will get to the bottom of this, if it's the last thing I do.

222. Middleton: Aunt Betts Pond

2011-08-15T09:17:00.000-07:00

Lush, lush, lush (the boys are mar-ching!). Wow, is the world green right now.

Aunt Betts Pond was a tough nut to crack. From what I could see it used to be an open pond, but has closed in. At least to the naked eye looking at it sideways, which is the least optimal way to see a pond - it's like looking at a flat piece of paper at table level - it was hard to discern.

But that just meant that there was a lot going on there nature-wise, and you know my vote on that. Leave the dead trees be; the woodpeckers will love them. Let them fall when their time comes for the insects and mushrooms to eat. Let the thickets grow fat with catbirds! May you always be surrounded by house wrens, and may the forest be with you.

I walked the access road along Aunt Betts Pond, my head turned to the right. I was passed by a man on a scooter with a teddy bear, or vice versa, I'm not sure. I found the remains of old walls - wouldn't an archaeological map of post-1620 structures in Massachusetts be just so cool? - and let my mind play in the playground of history.

221: Danvers: Proctor Farm

2011-08-15T09:14:00.000-07:00

I started to worry a bit on my way to the main field of Proctor Farm. The pathway to it is a nightmare of phragmites, but saved by the presence of boardwalks, bridges and a neat little picnic area unexpectedly tucked into the woods.

It was the lack of color. After spending a week in Montana, I was used to the bright yellows of the glacier lilies, but then, the brief Montana spring was just beginning in late July. The colors of the woodland plants were just gone in Massachusetts. I had made a trade-off, a little Massachusetts for a little Montana.

But once in the field, it all came back to me; to find the color in Massachusetts in August, you have to go to the fields. There was the jewelweed, the Joe pye-weed, the milkweed. I felt better as I entered the woods on the far side of the field, squeezed through the trees to meet the witch hazel, the sassafras and the stonewalls once again. And the slug. We cannot forget the small yellow slug that stopped me at the bridge like a troll waiting for a bribe. I left a $50 bill and moved on.

And if you believe that...

220. Beverly: Sally Milligan Park

2011-08-15T09:11:00.001-07:00

Hmm, I thought to myself, it seems all just a little too easy. And perhaps it was.

The water spots at Sally Milligan just seemed to me to be too...formalized, like perhaps someone had dug them purposely as wayside attractions. Not that there's anything wrong with that - some of my best friends are way too formalized.

After thinking through that one, I bitch-slapped myself. If that's my biggest problem today, a gorgeous summer's day on the North Shore of Boston, then I needed a dose of reallity, 500 ccs, please, and stat.

This place was a home to rocks and dells, to trees and mud, apparently to some kids that liked to make false houses in the woods. Bring it on! Let's not lose touch with our inner cavemen. Embrace the earth, sometimes literally if you have to to get the point.

Sally never walked here, but that's not unusual. There are plenty of places in Massachusetts named for people who never saw them. It's the spirit that counts. Sally walked the woods of the Berkshires as a kid, and went west to the Ohio Valley from there. She knew what it was all about, and hopefully her spirit is sharing that knowledge today with the kids of Beverly.

219. Salem: Salem Willows

2011-08-15T09:10:00.001-07:00

Wow, it's been so long since I really thought about weeping willow trees. I see them every year in their splendor on the Finger Lakes in New York, but seem to overlook them here at home in Massachusetts. Well, not today (August 10).

There was my youth, standing right in front of me. We had a weeping willow, right in my backyard in Hull. It was everything - shade, a place to build forts, hang pinatas, and most importantly, it was second base. The roots were, anyway. And any ball hit into the tree was in play. We - Charlie, Danny, Jimmy and I, the longstanding executive committee members of the Backyard Baseball League (with occasional appearances by J.P., Mark and others), became experts at tracking tennis balls smacked into the upper branches, and catching them before they hit the ground. Freddie Lynn (you're still my hero!), eat your heart out.

But Hurricane Gloria took that all away in 1985, when I was just fourteen, and at the height of what should have been my wiffle-ball-bat-and-tennis-ball stardom. I slowly forgot about weeping willows.

But this place today, it brought it all back. I remember a rumor from my youth, that a ship carrying the seeds of the weeping willow trees wrecked off Boston, and cast the seeds ashore, where they planted themselves and gave us places like Salem Willows. Of course, I later heard the same legend about rosa rugosa. Whether it's true or not, it's a beautiful story. Of the spread of invasive species!

Turning the Corner for Home

2011-08-15T09:09:00.000-07:00

218. Lancaster: Blood Town Forest

2011-07-29T17:21:00.001-07:00

And then there was one...for today, anyway.

As I entered the Blood Town Forest I expected a lot of things. The trash in the parking lot told me it was a party spot. OK, blind eye to that; see through it to the natural beauty of the forest, I said in my usual mantra.

I expected the eastern wood-pewees. They've been singing all over the state for the past three months. And so it was in Lancaster. I expected American goldfinches. Ditto.

But there were things I wasn't expecting, pleasant surprises. There was the great blue heron that I spooked from its hiding spot into a tree. It led me away, flying a few more feet ahead, stopping, turning back to see me, lather, rinse, repeat. It led me back to the parking area. Perhaps it knew something.

I met a small, older woman there, with her hair pulled back in a bun. She was loading her big van with trash. The garbage, she had explained with a wide smile on her face, had come from the woods. People had left it there, but she felt that her fellow townsfolk shouldn't have to see it, so she collected it and disposed of it. She did this every few days as necessary.

Humanity that day got a big boost in my eyes.

217. Leominster: Lincoln Woods Wildlife Sanctuary

2011-07-29T17:19:00.000-07:00

My fourth Mass Audubon wildlife sanctuary of the day brought me into a nearly urban setting, in Leominster. I parked the car, learned a little bit about the woman who donated the land for nature study for the kids of the community, and moved into the woods to work on some of my own questions.

Then, I threw them all out of the window, despite the fact I was standing outside.

There had been a fire. A couple of trees rested in their death poses on the ground, blackened by the experience. Arson? Maybe. Lightning? Much more likely. Me, detective? Ha!

The burned area proved to be more extensive than I first thought, as I wound slowly down the trail. Patches of earth were scorched, but as far as I could deduce, they were in connection with the fallen trees, as if the trees were hit, fell to the ground burning, and set the ground around them ablaze. Yet it was remarkably controlled. Perhaps the fire department responded quickly? Perhaps the rain was enough to put it out?

I got in close enough to take a photo of the burned bark of one of the trees and nothing else. It was superficial. Between the cracks I could see the brown of life. The tree was prematurely dead, like a man in a coffin before he was completely dead. It stared out at me as if asking for help. I felt useless.

216. Sterling: WMA

2011-07-29T17:18:00.001-07:00

Nameless, faceless. That's how this place will always be to me. I was heading for another map-bound green blob when I struck dirt parking lot. Sometimes they turn out simply to be turn-offs, but this one was different. It had a kiosk.

Still, that kiosk gave up no secrets, like a name. I walked down a slight hill and hit a macadamized road. Ahh, human history, in the woods again. All I knew was I was walking on a state wildlife management area.

It went straight, and for a very long, long time. It was obviously an old passageway for vehicles, but to what? And from what? I would never find out, as no matter how far I walked, it continued. Without even a clue as to what was nearby, without a foundation to be found, without a name to which I could attach a legend, I retreated.

On the way out, I found lilies. For whom were they planted, I wondered? Someone long gone, no doubt.

215. Princeton: Wachuset Meadow Wildlife Sanctuary

2011-07-29T17:16:00.001-07:00

My memories at Wachuset Meadow go back beyond my earliest days. Don't get me wrong, I only started visiting here in 2004. But the connection I feel to this land is remarkable and stretches back through time.

It was one of my earliest targeted Mass Audubon sanctuaries, when I was writing my book on their history. I met the director, shared a UMASS bonding moment, climbed Little Wachuset Mountain, and more. In the years since I've walked in search of butterflies, tracked fishers and porcupines, worked on winter tree identification in the dead of winter and sat in the barn just inches from the door as torrential rain poured outside.

But it's the history that gets me, the Goodnows, the carriage line that ran past the front door, the Crocker maple, the award-winning cattle. It's all here, if you care to close your eyes and see it.

It didn't matter what trail I walked today, it would mean something special to me. And it always will, even long after I'm gone.

214. Westminster: Leominster State Forest

2011-07-29T17:15:00.001-07:00

Do deer flies call ahead?

I'm serious about this. I left Hubbardston with a wave - not to a friend or a stranger, but at a deer fly that was trying its damnedest to get into my car with me. As I walked in the Lemo State Forest, it took mere seconds before the first deer flies came at me.

And they don't stop at just coming at you. They hit you. They ping off your head like someone's throwing large pebbles at your skull. My defense, when bug spray has stopped working? Well, first, I go with the righthand whatever-I-have-in-my-pocket swing. In most cases, that's a bird list, a small, white piece of card stock. I can hear the stupid things smacking into the card, but they keep coming back for more. Next, two arms, in throwing motions, waving them away from my ears, forward.

Having pitched as a baseball player through high school, my right arm knows the motion well. My left, not so much. Either way, if things keep going at this pace, I'll definitely need double rotator cuff surgery by the beginning of next spring training.

I got back to the car noticing two things: the laurel blooms had fallen away, and I hadn't noticed a single bird call, the first town in 214 for which I would not be making a visit to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology's ebird website.

Wait, was that a chickadee...?

YES!

213. Hubbardston: Hubbardston State Forest

2011-07-29T17:14:00.001-07:00

I paid for my dalliances at Flat Rock with this visit to Hubbardston. While I climbed the trail to the Bald, I always knew that in the end, I would be coming down, like the "Spinning Wheel" that Blood, Sweat and Tears sung about. In Hubbardston, things were excactly the opposite. It was the Flat Rock Bizarro World.

Down, down, down I went...

The breeze certainly helped as the mid-day heat threatened to bake me. It's not easy working both the sun and mosquito protections at the same time. With coatings of both on at the same time I feel like my skin can't breathe, that I'm sealed in a light film of my own devising. But it's better than the alternative, sunburned mosquito bites.

Great spangled frittilary! A new butterfly species for 2011 drifted on past, and made me take notice of something below, a partially consumed russula mushroom. I usually start looking for mushrooms in September, after the heat is gone and the rains have given them a chance to sprout, but it seems those days are gone, that they start early every year now.

Up, up, up I trudged...

212. Templeton: Templeton State Forest

2011-07-29T17:12:00.000-07:00

In the end, I never got in. I circled the forest by car, got out and walked along its edges for more than my slotted half hour trying to find an opening, but I never did.

I retreated to statuary.

Near a town center I found the World War I memorial, and what a sight it was. A doughboy - and let's stop right there. Where did that term come from? We know that World War I soldiers bore that mantle, but why? In fact, rumors say it goes back to the Mexican War of 1848 during which many soldiers found themselves covered in the dust of Northern Mexico, like they were covered in dough. Yet we don't refer to Civil War soldiers as doughboys...hmm, a mystery.

Anyway, this doughboy was being as symbolic as possible. He's in the act of laying down his gun, while leaning over the makeshift grave of what I'm interpreting as a a fallen brother. In his free hand, a sheath of wheat. Take that as you may - peace, the harvest, the fall, time to rest.

Well done, Templeton.

211. Winchendon: Fern Glenn Conservation Area

2011-07-29T17:11:00.001-07:00

I took the turn into the drive like the website told me to. Depsite the fact that it didn't look like a road, I kept going, like the website told me to. And when I got to the end, I found the open area in which to park, like the website told me I would. From there, it was into the woods, where, among other things, I found loppers and gloves, signs of recent trail work.

I drove away. Near the end of the drive I ran into two people on foot, one of whom looked slightly nonplussed by my vehicular appearance. "I did what the website told me to," I said. He admitted that he had not been on the site, and trusted me, though he was surprised to see me coming out this way by car. He said he worked for the town and was helping with the preservation of this precious open space.

His friend, in the meantime, had retreated to move her car so I could get out. "Wendy!" he called when she reappeared, "This is John, he's working on the bird survey, too."

"Wait...John Galluzzo?" she asked as she saw me.

"Yes," I said. She obviously knew my name from the state Breeding Bird Atlas II project, for which I'm a regional coordinator.

"This is John Galluzzo!" she said with a flourish, turning to her friend. "He's famous!"

Oh, oh my God, I'm going to faint, I thought, as all the blood in my body rushed straight to my ego. If I wasn't already sitting down, I would have needed to sit down.

210. Gardner: Lake Wampanoag Wildlife Sanctuary

2011-07-29T17:09:00.001-07:00

Well, if the world was all painted turtles and colorful butterflies, Lake Wampanoag Wildlife Sanctuary would be the poster child for the earth. That, of course, makes no sense, but, warped by thousands of advertisements in your life like I have been, I'm sure you understand my meaning.

The fields were in their splendor, dragonflies abuzz. I walked a short loop past a small pond - Lake Wampanoag is not on the property, but nearby - and a ruby meadowhawk landed on my arm. I watched as a blue dragonfly, possibly known as the blue dasher, hopped from plant to plant. I'd been trying to photograph one for days! I froze and waited, and the moment came. Got it!

As I walked, dozens of butterflies rose from the trail just ahead of me. I walked in a flutter of wings under the smooth blue sky. It was almost too idyllic, too good to be true, but Mother Nature doesn't deal in falseness. Except when it comes to camouflage. Or a caterpillar that has spots on its tail that look like eyes to trick a predator. Or a mockingbird that can make you think you're hearing another species when it sings.

OK, Mother Nature is full of it. But how fun would life be if everything was exactly what you thought it was?

209. Ashburnham: Mid-State Trail

2011-07-29T17:08:00.001-07:00

This was a toughee, or a tuffy, depending on your particular spelling. I found the Mid-State Trail, but was unable to crack much of it. The pathway wound into the woods next to a mobile office for a failed development project. The problem was that the trail had been neglected for far, far too long to be very passable. There was a dumpster and a big sign that said, in good old-fashioned stenciling (a lost art, if you ask me), "HIKERS WELCOME PLEASE STAY ON TRAIL." What trail?

I puttered around for a half an hour with the goldfinches, chipping sparrows and black-capped chickadees.

But something felt terribly familiar about Ashburnham. I started to remember a birding trip with a friend on which we stopped into a sub shop, grabbed sandwiches and sat down to eat in an old cemetery. I drove back to the center of town, if I remember correctly, there was a statue of...yes, there it was! Johnny Appleseed!

This time, I actually got out of the car long enough to read the sign about...The Schoolboy of 1850? Argh, foiled again!

208. Fitchburg: Flat Rock Wildlife Sanctuary

2011-07-29T17:06:00.001-07:00

Flat Rock Wildlife Sanctuary, a Mass Audubon property, has long been on my list. It's now off the list, and on another one: places I want to visit again.

Up the trail I went. Apparently I never read the brochure. Up, up, up...it was fantastic. I've got low-level mountain climber fever. I see a hill, I want to climb it. Having visited the Rockies this year and planning on visiting Glacier National Park, I've realized I have a limit. I hit 12,000 feet in Colorado, but watched people get out of their cars with snowboards and start hiking up to 13,000. The urge to tag along was there, but faint. Maybe it was altitude sickness.

I needn't have worried about that at Flat Rock. I soon reached the final stretch to the top, the Flat Rock Road. So cool! It's not an actual road, but a long stretch of exposed bedrock in a generally straight line that looks like a road. It leads to a spot atop the hill called "the Bald." And you can thank the sheep for all if this, I believe. Mid-19th century herders kept their sheep in places like this until they ate the plants down to the soil that blew and washed away, leaving these hills bald; they then moved to greener pastures in Ohio and environs.

But at the Bald I found what I figured had to be a pestle, a carved round depression in the rock that I imagined was used for grinding corn or other grains long, long ago. Now I'm no fancy-pants archaeologist or even some high-fallutin' big-city anthropologist, but I do have one hell of an imagination.

Heck, I thought I even smelled bread baking...

207. Lunenburg: Cowdrey Nature Center

2011-07-29T17:05:00.001-07:00

So I strolled out of the woods of Shirley into the woods of Lunenberg. I still stand behind my decision. Had I done things in reverse, and walked the woods in the winter, I would have been spending my summer trying to walk the seashore towns, among the thousands of sun worshippers at the beaches...I shudder at the thought. Give me a quiet forest path any day, even in the height of summer.

With every stop, I'm vindicated. A gravelly brook meandered under a wooden bridge here at Cowdrey, where I was, according to the parking lot, anyway, alone. My only friends were the hermit and wood thrushes, the scarlet tanagers and a belted kingfisher working the brook.

I stopped on the Mayflower Trail while heading for Tall Timber, names which, of course, meant nothing and everything to me. I noted big chunks of overturned mushrooms in the trail, but something more. Newts! Red-spotted newts, to be specific, two of them, were munching on the mushrooms, standing over them as if protecting them like a 3-year-old with his favorite Thomas the Tank Engine toy screaming "Mine!" after he'd banged it into a table leg too many times and was told to stop or he'd lose his toy privileges. Not that I've gone through that recently.

Well, I, for one, was not going to be the one to take the mushrooms from the newts. Mangia, mi goombahs.

206. Shirley: Mulpus Brook Wildlife Management Area

2011-07-29T17:03:00.000-07:00

I got to Shirley early, and not just for the rhyming, although I will admit that was a very big part of it. I had a wonderful day planned (on July 27).

Of course, nature had its own plans, complete with heat and humidity. Yet other factors would quickly make Mulpus Brook a forgotten adventure for me. It was overgrown, which to me was just fine. As a wildlife management area and not a state park, it was designed for heavy usage by wildlife and little impact by humans. Go to it, friends!

But with the good side of nature comes the bad. I was guarding against ticks, so wasn't worried about that, but there, in the early dawn, as the sun slipped sideways through the trees, the mosquitoes began their work. I Offed up.

But it did not matter. My hands and lower legs were exposed, but the former were slimed in bug spray and the latter were so toughened by a summer of thorns, barbs and bites that I barely felt anything down there at all any more. No, they weren't the problem. The mosquitoes were bypassing open skin and biting me directly through my shirt.

29 minutes, 58 second...29 minutes, 59 seconds...30 minutes. Bye, Shirley! I know it's not your fault.

205. Wenham: Wenham Lake and Cemetery

2011-07-25T10:39:00.000-07:00

You just can't go to Wenham and not take a look at the lake. It's sacrilege.

Unfortunately, it's cutoff from access, so it has to be seen from afar. I started in the cemetery and moved my way across.

But the cemetery was a study unto itself, a collection of Perkinses, Conants, Peabodys, Dodges, all the names that make the North Shore famous. Wenham has done well in memorializing its fallen soldiers, firemen and policemen, and even has a stone dedicated to the town founders and "Sons of the Revolution Now Buried in Unmarked Graves."

Future historians will have no way of capturing this following tale in its entirety, but it's as much a moment as any political election or natural disaster. There, at the back of the cemetery, was the grave of a U.S. Marine at rest. He was obviously a dad, and I say that without really knowing, but the grave decorations tell me all I need to know.

In 2004, Boston Red Sox fans who watched their team win the World Series for the first time in 86 years moved en masse to local cemeteries, bringing word of the championship to their lost fathers, uncles and grandfathers, and even mothers, aunts and grandmothers. Baseball is in the New England blood. Here, though, in 2011, a whole different fan base had reason to celebrate. The Boston Bruins won the Stanley Cup! Bruins fans, perhaps due to the nature of the sport, are even more diehard than Red Sox fans. There, in a banner and even a puck, was a son telling a dad (again, assumptions) that their common dream had come true.

The emotion was palpable. What else would you travel to a grave to tell a lost family member? A birth, a death? The Bruins winning the Cup ranks right up there with life's most important moments.

Lake? What lake?

204. Manchester-by-the-Sea: Agassiz Rock

2011-07-25T10:31:00.000-07:00

I guess I learned a lot about myself on this one. When presented with the choice of Big Agassiz versus Little Agassiz, I didn't even hesitate. I went big.

That meant descending from the hill on which I was walking and finding what looked like a huge slab of bedrock, although I wonder now if it was an erratic. I would hope so. I'd hate to think that one of the greatest naturalists in Massachusetts history would have lent his name to such a basic feature of the landscape. Does that make me a geo-snob? So be it.

I was much more impressed - after scaling the rest of the loop trail in the now oppressive humidity - with Little Agassiz. One problem: I couldn't tell which one it was. There were two, side-by-each, as Rhode Islanders say, ginormous erratic boulders standing atop a hill.

I swear I have no idea where this uncomfortable and unnatural love of erratic boulders comes from, but I think I need to start keeping a checklist. That, or regular appointments with a therapist.

203. Essex: Athletic Fields

2011-07-25T10:20:00.000-07:00

I could have walked the extensive marshes in the northern part of town, but I had two reasons for avoiding them. First, I prefer them with snowy owls in them. Second, in a particularly buggy week, when deer flies and mosquitoes had already done their damage, I, in no way, wanted to add greenheads into the mix.

Instead, it was the enchantment of the old town hall and library that brought me to a halt on Main Street. What a fantastic old building! Behind it were youth athletic fields which even had tarps over the pitcher's mound and home plate, keeping them somewhat dry for upcoming games. Behind the fields were a part of the marsh system that dominates the rest of Essex. I'll bet the kids who played ball here learned how to time the onset of greenhead season.

I stopped to photograph the Civil War memorial. The base was unique, but the statue part came out of a catalogue. And why not? While practically every town needed a monument - Essex sent "186 Loyal Sons" to fight in the war, for instance - not every town could afford to commission a statue. Some entrepreneur somewhere figured out how to mass market his Union soldier sculpture and made a fortune, though I'll be there's a warehouse still full of them somewhere out in Indiana.

But it's all in the sentiment, and Essex did the right thing by their Union men.

202. Hamilton: Bradley Palmer State Park

2011-07-25T10:11:00.000-07:00

With rain still coming down, and more thunder rocking the sky, I stuck to the main road of the state park, passing two women with the only dog I have met in 2012 that did not treat me like a milkbone.

The air had grown terribly thick, and I wondered how far the fumes would travel from the fuel truck rollover that had closed Route 1 for the weekend.

A big boom sent my heart fluttering a bit, and I considered retreating to the car, but I stuck it out. The rain, which was falling steadily but not heavily any more, had not penetrated certain places. The multiple-canopied trees along the roadway had dry spots under them, which seemed impossible. I found a couple of side trails, but refrained from taking them, unsure of how unstable the weather truly was.

On my return trip, two men stopped me and asked me if I had the key to the gate to the road on which I was walking. I must have looked official. I said no and accepted their frowns in the manner in which they were intended.

201. Topsfield: Ipswich River Wildlife Sanctuary

2011-07-25T09:59:00.000-07:00

Rain? Are you kidding me? The forecast had called for hot and dry today (July 23), yet here I was, standing near the Rockery in heavy rain. Eh, why fight it?

I ran into a photographer who had arrived a few minutes before me and set up shop in the one dry spot on the boardwalk. Two great blue herons flew by as we spoke, while a third stood silently in the marsh. I promised to do my best not to spook it as I walked past, and my promise held.

A green frog croaked at 8:17. I add it here only for dramatic effect.

I walked through the Rockery itself, thinking back on my research for my Mass Audubon book from years ago. Thomas Proctor, who owned the land, had paid a lot of men a lot of money over a lot of years to create this marvel, and today it's entirely enshrouded by nature, probably not his original vision for it, but who can tell with early twentieth century millionaires?

Another green frog, 8:27. The drama grew.

Thunder boomed, somewhat softly, as I retreated up the Innermost Trail, with the deer flies rhytmically tapping my head. By the time I reached the parking lot the sky had turned steel gray and was shaking its first menacingly at me.

I shook mine back. Rain wasn't going to ruin my day.

200. Bellingham: Center Cemetery

2011-07-25T09:46:00.000-07:00

BAM! 200. Or should I say "Ding"? World of Warcraft popularized the ding as the audio symbol of level advancement in their massive multi-player online world. But "bam" feels much more forceful when reaching a milestone in the real world.

I haven't, of course. Two hundred is just a nice round number and not significant in any way to 351. It falls just short of meaning that I've walked in 4 out of every 7 towns in Massachusetts, and that I still have 3 out of those 7 to go. And they keep getting farther and farther away.

With no other open space to speak of, this tiny cemetery was it for Bellingham. I had to walk slowly.

There are a lot of Bates buried here, a name I associate strongly with the South Shore, like the famous War of 1812 keeper of Scituate Light, but they obviously moved west at some point, as there are just Bates everywhere.

Two Greek families had recently gone with the new fad, color photographs inserted into their stones. Cemeteries are getting a whole lot spookier now that the dead can gaze back at us in color, instead of in the bas-relief way they used to on occasional memorials. What picture would you choose? College graduation? Driver's license? Mug shot? Which one will I choose?

Ugh, I don't want to think about it. Besides, BAM! My day was done.

BAM!

199. Holliston: Brentwood Conservation Lands

2011-07-25T09:36:00.000-07:00

It took a while to find it, but once I stepped into the Brentwood property, I was entranced.

Sand. Why was there sand underfoot this far inland? I think I need a geology lesson, as being from the water's edge, I tend to associate sand solely with the beaches, yet here it was. I guess a refresher couldn't hurt.

The sandy section quickly gave way to a swamp that looked like it belonged in Louisiana. I felt that at any moment an ivory-billed woodpecker would soar through the trees, but that, as we know, is now impossible. Or is it? Yes, it is.

Or is it?

I spent a good solid two minutes attempting to photograph a blue dragonfly, but never got it in focus. Maybe that was the problem, as comedian Mitch Hedberg quipped about Bigfoot. Maybe it was just blurry. "There is a large, out-of-focus monster roaming the countryside," he said, "and that is extra scary to me."

Ehh, I rolled onto my final stop of the day, dragonflyless.

198. Shrewsbury: Dean Park

2011-07-25T09:24:00.000-07:00

Decisions, decisions. Which park to choose? The first one looked nice, but the second one has the General Artemus Ward House directly across the street from it.

So call me a history slut.

The temperature had climbed well into the 90s by the time I reached Shrewsbury, and I was beginning to really feel it after three hours of walking. But the show had to go on. First things first, I photographed the house. Ward was one of those Revolutionary War heroes who survives more on a local level, partially on a regional, than national. Think of him like Henry "The Ox" Knox, though one wonders if he would have retained that nickname with the surname McGuillicuddy or Tannenbaum. History might never remember a Henry "The Ox" Patterson.

I swept past the pond and took note of a sign that said that the fountains installed therein had been the gift of residents in honor of a family member. I couldn't see any fountains and moved on. Then they erupted, shooting water into the air, a feature unique to my travels this year. I rushed back to the water's edge to photograph them, not knowing when they might quit. Well done, Shrewsbury. Bravo.

I commiserated with a camp counselor shutting down her position for the day, telling her to stay cool. It was becoming a day unfit for man or beast, or, like me, both.

197. Boylston: Wachusett Reservoir

2011-07-25T09:14:00.000-07:00

I respect "No Trespassing" signs, and as such was ready to go elsewhere, until I found a publicly accessible section of the Wachusett Reservoir. It's a biggee, more than 4,000 acres of fresh water, all dammed up over a twelve-year period at the beginning of the twentieth century (remember that?). Some of the water seen at the reservoir will someday soon be in the stomachs of people in Boston. Weird thought.

A few small islands escaped the damming of the Nashua River, and the trees still stand thereon, although it seemed to me that the water level was quite low comparative to recent weeks. Still, it was a spectacular scape across which to gaze.

Wildlife here was nearly nonexistent, a chickadee here, a towhee there. It should be the kind of place where wildlife thrives, as the sign at the entrance to the trail showed that there were a couple dozen things you can't do when you enter the park. Of course, when read properly, the sign says thatthe following things are prohibited: not swimminig, not walking your dog, not horseback riding...

I'm not sure, but I think I was in violation of a whole mess of rules.

196. Clinton: Rauscher Farm

2011-07-25T08:59:00.000-07:00

Big maps, easy-to-reach and read handouts, accessible parking - now this is my kind of open space.

The walk was dominated by a wide-spreading pond and today thankfully by two species of flycatchers, although I wish they'd develop more of a taste for mosquitoes. At this point in the year they almost have all of my blood. I'm trying to save the last few drops so I can play with my son from time to time, but mosquitoes apparently have no such paternal instincts. "MUST DRAIN HUMANS..."

I found a beaver-chewed tree and thought that judging by the age of the damage, there had to have been beavers here within the past decade. Then I turned the corner and was met with a massive beaver lodge, the biggest one I've ever seen in person. I mean, this thing could be rented out by a family of five unworried about getting a little wet on their summer vaca. I'm sure this one is about average, but it struck me as larger than normal.

Stepping back, I realized that there were in fact dozens of recently chewed trees, and that the beavers had been active not that long ago. Who knows what goes through their minds? I've heard stories of how someone can destroy their dams in one day, then come back the next day and see them already rebuilt. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology chose beavers as their mascot a century ago, for their industriousness in engineering; they couldn't have made a better selection.

195. Hudson: Danforth Falls

2011-07-25T08:51:00.000-07:00

Well, if you want proof of my visit to Danforth Falls, check the police log.

I walked the trails in quietude, not even the Danforth Creek providing enough of a rush to make a noise, until I smelled smoke. It was pretty overpowering, making me wonder if there had been a recent forest fire. I reached the falls, which were not moving, and the source of the smoke, a grill.

Oh, big no-no.

I decided that when I got back to the car I would call the local fire department and tell them that it looked under control, but that there was a fire in the woods, even if it was in a backyard barbecue set-up. But then, the oddest sight I've ever seen in the woods happened upon me: a policeman in full uniform walking the trail. Seconds later, a fireman followed, also in uniform. So incongruous.

I reached the parking lot and was glad to see that despite the presence of one fire truck and two cop cars, I was not blocked in. No idea how bad the busting was, but somebody did get busted that morning.

193 and 194. Framingham and Marlborough: Raymond J. Callahan State Park

2011-07-25T08:36:00.000-07:00

I smelled the wild raspberries before I saw them, and they brought me back to my grandfather's garden in Hingham thirty-five years ago. It's amazing what the olfactory senses can do.

The trail surprised me as it opened onto a wide open field, sloped down the side of a hill. I found a bench at the top, but bypassed it, as I was intrigued by what was in store. I took a trail to the right, and climbed a hill in Framingham. I descended and swooped down to a pond in Marlborough, all the while listening to two women ahead of me chattering incessantly. We never actually saw each other, and I doubt they even knew I was there. I hope the one on the left gets that toe looked at.

I never found the powerline referenced in a note on the fence when I came in. The sign was apologizing for the unsightly condition of the cut, apparently bushwacked back in August 2010, and promised that the plants there would regenerate. In fact, if it wasn't for powerline cuts and their landscape maintenance, several species of birds and butterflies might just give up on Massachusetts altogether. No need to apologize, if you ask me. Cutting the powerlines back provides habitat diversity and therefore wildlife diversity.

Circling the pond I found the human history I just knew had to be there, from barbed wire to stonewalls to a free standing chimney. Painted turtles slid off logs at my approach.

Of course, none of this matters in the face of milkweed beetle sex. Just can't get enough of that.

192. Natick: Hunnewell Town Forest

2011-07-25T08:25:00.000-07:00

So anyway, back to the story. When I walked Dover-Sherborn and then double-dipped on Dover, I mistakenly skipped Natick, which I thought I had walked. So here we are at the Hunnewell Forest (on July 20). Got it?

At first, I thought, it was more wetland than forest, but then the magnificence of the tall pines struck me. I was also presented with a choice: tower, memorial or woodland loop? OK, I've had more than my fair share of water towers this year, so that was out. Nature or history?

So I set out for the memorial. I stepped past even more wetlands, marveling at the nest boxes on the water, which ran from brand new to heavily-used. At one point I paused to pay homage to an unborn robin, finding a striking blue egg on the ground, in the heart of the trail. A wood duck blasted out of the reeds with its wistful cry. Who said nature and history don't mix?

I found the memorial and snapped a pic, to join the hundreds I've taken of other similar stones in the past. Thank heavens for digital storage. I do have to admit, though, that Hunnewell certainly sounds like my kind of guy, a man who strove to enrich his hometown with "the beauty of trees and the spaciousness of parks."

See? Moe Howard was right. The big solution to life? "Spread out!"

191. Ashland: Ashland State Park

2011-07-25T08:10:00.000-07:00

The sign up front said it all. The state couldn't afford to staff the park. Pride? gone.

A group - two moms and a bevy of kids - walked ahead of me in bathing suits, so I knew the pond I saw on the map wouldn't have much wildlife on it, which was just fine. I'm, certainly learning the distinction between "state park" and "state forest" in Massachusetts as I walk it from end to end.

The main road into the park, which was cut off from the start, leads to two completely unused parking lots, a damn shame considering the temperature and the relief the pond could provide. Perhaps the state should consider how much less electricity is consumed when options like this one are utilized rather than air conditioning, and figure that into the budget. But I'm not going to bang my head against that wall any more than I just have.

At the lake there was light activity, a man walking two yellow labs, a father teaching his son to cast his fishing line, and a handful of swimmers, soon joined by my fellow walkers. I found a shady area overlooking the pond, and took advantage of it. Four hours of walking had scorched me, physically, but invigorated me spiritually. Time for a break. I was off to downeast Maine for the next four days. Hmm, Half an Hour a Day Across the Pine Tree State: 433 Towns in 365 Days...better start at the northern border. Don't want to be up there when the snow flies. No suh, don't want that.

190. Hopkinton: Waseeka Wildlife Sanctuary

2011-07-25T07:58:00.001-07:00

The drive into the parking lot, between two about-one-car-width-apart trees reminded me of walking the Polar Caves in New Hampshire as a kid, squeezing through sets of rocks that never intended for human intervention.

From there, I hit the buggy trail, and by that I don't mean horse-and, but swat-and-run-as-fast-as-you-can buggy. I took the Pitch Pine Trail for starters, which was probably a mistake, but eventually popped out onto a body of freshwater to a familiar sound: ospreys.

I've become quite used to the sounds of ospreys defending their territories over the past few years, and though I was several hundred feet from their nest, they wanted me to know I was too close for their comfort.

But look at that! The nest was not on a manmade platform. For the first time ever, I was looking directly at an osprey nest built on a dead tree, as nature intended. To me, this symbolized a triumphant moment in the life of the osprey in Massachusetts. Nearly extirpated during the 1960s and '70s, here was a pair that had foregone human help, had not even chosen a cell tower, but instead selected what their great-great-great-grandparents had chosen ages ago, a prime real estate spot in a completely natural setting.

For one brief moment, I was universally proud of the Bay State.

189. Upton: Upton State Forest

2011-07-25T07:34:00.000-07:00

I've been boxed.

I love boxer puppies. Young dogs, in general, are full of so much spunk that it's hard for me to dislike any of them, but I'm definitely not into the little nervous yippy types. An old friend had two boxers, and I had a fantastic time walking and taking care of them from time to time.

But they come with a punch. Boxer pups have a tendency to stand on their hind legs and jab a paw directly into your midsection (if you're lucky), and if you're not braced for it, man, do you feel it. One such creature happily and slobberingly charged me on the CCC road at Upton State Forest, and although I knew it was coming I stood there and took the jabbing. OOF! Ah, that brings back memories...

Apart from the obvious and ubiquitous Civilian Conservation Corps history, I found stonewalls and cellar holes. The more that I do, all across Massachusetts, the more I want to travel back in time to see the homes that once stood in these woods. Maybe it's the constant chomp of the research bug, but I always yearn to know more every time I see stones piled up in unnatural ways.

Come on science, get with the program and get the time machine done! After all, it's been more than a century since H.G. Wells came up with it. On second thought, I think I could become obsessed with it, and might never spend much time in the present. My wife would constantly be telling people, "Sorry, he's not here - he's in 9th century England watching Alfred the Great fight off the Danish invasions. But I'm sure he'll be back before he leaves for the Renaissance."

188. Milford: Upper Charles Trail

2011-07-25T07:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it's nice to just stare straight ahead at a wide open trail and hoof it.

And I did just that until I came across an opening to a small section of woods...sigh. I just couldn't help myself. The Centennial Park diversion from the trail was certainly interesting, with lots of wildlife and infrastructure to draw water from the river for town purposes. A dozen chimney swifts loomed overhead, most of them youngsters, chittering away behind mom and dad in search of food.

Back on the main trail, I passed more roller bladers than I had seen in years. I, once, was a member of that fraternity. But my hometown, Hull, was so sandy, that it was a cost-intensive proposition. Sand and ball bearings aren't supposed to mix, but they do.

As I neared my turn back into the parking lot, I noticed a bald man with a saggy, shirtless body pumping the pedals on an old bike that looked like all it was missing was a handlebar basket, and I thought to myself, "Oops, should get out of the way so the old-timer can come through." But when he turned the corner, he stood up on those pedals and blasted past me with a brisk "Good morning!" I recognized the tats on his forearms and knew: ex-military. That discipline never goes away.

187. Hopedale: Hopedale Parklands

2011-07-25T07:01:00.000-07:00

A kayak class was forming as I set foot on the trail, in the shadow of the giant factory for which the river had been damned to form the pond that now shines as the centerpiece of the Hopedale Parklands.

Other than that, it was pretty quiet, just how I like it. I shared the start of the trail with a woman with a very small dog, knowing I'd most likely see her again on my way out. I walked along the water as closely as I could, which meant that at one point I diverted from the old macadam road that probably came with the dedication of the park more than a century ago. I also found the stone dedicating the nature trails to Willard W. Taft, "For his many years of dedication in preserving this special landscape for the enjoyment of all." An appropriate quote from Henry David Thoreau followed: "If the fairest features of the landscape are to be named after men, let them be the noblest and worthiest men alone." Sadly, he probably meant men, specifically. When asked about his friend and fellow writer Margaret Fuller, he once replied that she was an amazing woman, she almost had the intellect of a man.

I stopped on the macadam on the way back when the tiniest of critters, even smaller than my co-walker's dog, caught my eye. A miniscule wood frog hopped once, then posed for my camera, wether it knew it or not.

Gotcha, froggy!

186. Mendon: Veterans Park

2011-07-25T06:39:00.000-07:00

I find it hard to believe I visited Mendon, New York, before Mendon, Massachusetts, yet here we are.

Veterans Park is one of those multi-use green blobs, playground, sports fields and short walk through the woods all rolled into one. Thankfully no baseball was being played today, due to the excessive heat. I remember those days as a kid in my Corkin Lumber uniform for the Hull Little League. Sure, the Alice blue uniforms reflected most of the sunlight, but there was nothing like baking on a hard dirt surface for two hours while your pitcher struggled to throw strikes, and there were perfectly good episodes of Hulk Hogan's Rock'n' Wrestling and Dungeons & Dragons on TV, not to mention a perfectly cool ocean two blocks away.

The local killdeers had taken to the field, despite the heat. It looked like mom was playing second base while the kids overloaded the left side of the infield. They could never defend against a bunt that way, but who's counting.

In the woods, I found (well, a baseball, which I high-tossed back to the field) the answer to a question that has always bothered me. It's beetles! I found several sassafras trees with pockmarked holes on their leaves, and found two Japanese beetles munching away. I remember now that my dad had a coffee can with a little bit of kerosene in it in the garage, into which he dropped them to kill them after picking them off plants in the garden. Talk about invasive species. They came in around 1912 in Riverton, New Jersey, and have since spread from Minnesota to Florida to Maine.

Persistent little buggers.

185. Millville: Millville Lock

2011-07-25T06:27:00.000-07:00

And when your town is named Millville, well, I guess there's no escaping that past either.

My planned green-blob-on-the-map visit fell through as I could find no access to the parcel I had chosen. Instead, I followed signs to historic sites, figuring that if all else failed, I'd walk downtown Millville. That's when I tripped over the Millville Lock.

At least I found the entrance to the trail to main trail that leads to the spur trail to the lock. But do you think that I could find the lock itself? Grr...

And it's a damn shame that I couldn't. It has statistics. I dig historical stats. Of the 49 locks that once defined the Blackstone River, this one is the best preserved, or so they tell me. Looking at the map now, I see that I apparently walked right past the spur trail off the old railroad bed on which I trod for nearly an hour.

Perspective time. There are a lot of bad things happening in the world right now, and me not being able to embrace a bit of history is not one of them.

Serenity now! I'll go back someday.

184. Blackstone: Blackstone Gorge

2011-07-25T06:10:00.000-07:00

Living on the South Shore for most of my life, I was shielded from the harsher realities of life. Let's face it, when you grow up in Hull you think hard work is defined by how many times you have to run the carousel during the day or how many cotton candy cones you have to spin. That's not to discount the work the lobstermen do, or the firefighters or the Coast Guard, but Hull was just never a great center of manufacturing. It never went through the Industrial Revolution mill phase that many other towns did.

Blackstone was all mills, even before its incorporation in 1845. The grandest evidence of its heyday stands today in the form of the Blackstone, Roaring or Rolling Dam, constructed in 1886 to harness the power of nature for the betterment of society, or at least the financial benefit of the Blackstone Manufacturing Company.

The path from the dam leads to a gorge. Following the trail, suddenly the walker finds himself 100 feet above the water, a neat trick. As I walked, it was strangely silent. On a beautiful day like this (July 13), in a gorgeous natural setting like this, there should have been birdsong...

Finally, I found the gang, cardinals, titmice, chickadees, blue jays, red-eyed vireos, even a wood thrush. I also found the spot from whicgh the recent Fourth of July fireworks had been launched, and probably the Fifth of July and the Sixth of July as well. Independence rocks on in the American soul, as does the desire to hear things go "boom."

183. Norwood: Highland Cemetery and Shattuck Woods

2011-07-09T12:10:00.000-07:00

I'd really have to have a low opinion of you to think I could honestly tell you I walked for a full half hour in Shattuck Woods. But I think more of you than that.

I walked it, for certain, but it lasted a few mere minutes. I knew I had to extend my stay in Norwood, and so took to the neighboring cemetery.

And what a place it is! There'a s burial chapel with stained glass, gargoyles and a plaque that mentions that it was dedicated in MDCCCCIIII, which was...a wicked long time ago. There's a beautiful memorial - if you can find beauty in ancient artillery - to the men of Company I, 35th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry. As with many towns in Massachusetts, the post-Civil War years were supremely important to the history of Norwood, or as it was known until 1872, South Dedham.

Work crews were spread throughout the cemetery, cutting grass in the bright, blazing sunshine. I kept them at a distance, in my ongoing quest for noise mitigation, and enjoyed the shadier trees whenever I could. All in all, the cemetery was impressive, from its war memorials to its civil servants' memorials to its intriguing names, like Olmsted. It may not have been the Olmsted, but fame by association can be a cool thing.

Oops! Dover: Noanet Woods

2011-07-09T12:09:00.000-07:00

Well, it was bound to happen. When you have to coordinate 351 towns, 351 spots on a map, 351 open spaces, there's at least a slight chance that even the brightest mind will mistakenly double-up on a community. So imagine how easy it was for me to do it.

But in my defense, it's my friend Joy's fault. She works at the Broadmoor Wildlife Sanctuary, which is in Dover, Sherborn and Natick. When I walked there...whenever the hell that was...I walked two of the three towns, Dover and Sherborn. Although I recorded all of that in a blog entry soon thereafter, in my head - that dark, dank, scary place, full of roller coasters, 1970s television commercial jingles, M*A*S*H quotes, century-old baseball statistics, Mike Tyson's Punchout codes...I could go on - I had walked Natick and Sherborn. So I walked Dover again. I have no idea why it's Joy's fault, but you have to blame somebody. It's the American way.

Well, it was fun anyway. There were grand old wooden farm gates, a beautiful walk to the crest of mighty Noanet Peak (387 feet - about a tenth of Greylock!) and strange black feathers with white circles on them on the trail. There was an odd screaming at one point, and I finally realized I had stumbled upon helmeted guinea fowl, which completely explained the feathers.

Back to work.

182. Walpole: Walpole Town Forest

2011-07-09T12:08:00.000-07:00

Eww, dead raccoon.

I stepped past it (on July 6) and rolled into the forest. Actually, I rolled through a short section of woods and into a big open area with a path leading directly to a reservoir. The main path was manmade, but it was pretty obvious that deer had made the rest. And where there are deer, there are deer ticks. I found out just how uncomfortable it is to walk through tall grass while constantly looking at your shins.

The woods were nearby, but I decided to stick to the open grasslands and the view of the water. A mother and father mute swan were herding their only cygnet - probably a sign of snapping turtles, perhaps some local coyotes, as swans produce much larger broods - while a gray catbird resonated in the woods with an eerie echo. Typically, the catbirds I meet are in my face, a few feet away in the thickets, and don't get the chance to play with things like reverberation, at least in my ears.

Other, closer, sounds, though, had my attention, as buzzing insects dominated the grasses around me. Oddly, I couldn't see any of them. That pleasure was left solely to the dragonflies, which were out in force in the bright sunshine.

As was I...

Aww Yeah...

2011-07-04T22:11:00.000-07:00

181. Burlington: Mill Pond

2011-07-04T21:41:00.001-07:00

I was starting to get a little worried that I'd have to write about frogs again. I don't want this to turn into a Frog Blog. Or do I...

I found another good one while on the main trail into Mill Pond (on June 29) , took another pic, and kept moving. Soon, though, the stories started to unfold: the powerline, the pond, the four guys, two girls, a radio and a rope swing.

I heard the voices first - after hearing the yellow-billed cuckoo calling from the trees, of course - and was unsure of what I would be stumbling upon. After the chatter came the splash, and it was a good one. I found a break in the treeline and watched as one after another the kids climbed onto a sawhorse well up the little island, held on for dear life, timed their releases and crashed into the cool water. Good for them. And it wasn't the least bit obnoxious, which was amazing. Imagine that - music kept low, just enjoying the outdoors, with a touch of daredeviltry.

My next encounter was with a garter snake. Typically when I run across them, they slither away and keep going. This guy, maybe a foot and a half long, turned and tried to take me on, staring me down and flicking its tongue angrily. I had no beef. I moved on.

180. Easthampton: Arcadia Wildlife Sanctuary

2011-07-04T21:40:00.001-07:00

I'll admit it, I stumbled to this finish line. More than once during the trip, I found that extra reserve of energy, the one that propelled me over yet another finish line. But this was nearly my fortieth sanctuary visit in three days. I was cooked.

I let the mosquitoes have at me as I walked the trail to my favorite overlook on the oxbow, the tower that shows the heights of the historical floods of the region. This is another place I know too well for the purposes of this blog. I know the story of the land owner who experimented with bird boxes on his property, inviting outside guests to visit his land an experience the wonder of nature. I know how he sold it to Mr. Chafee, who wanted to turn it over to Mass Audubon in honor of his son, dead at a tragically young age. I know about the old tobacco barns, the corduroy road, the raccoon that raised her young in that very observation tower overlooking the marsh.

When I emerged from the trails, drenched in mid-day humidity sweat, Mt. Tom stared me down. "Come on, you know you wanna!" it teased, "I'm in another town, one you haven't walked this year." It wasn't easy, but I blew it off with a quick turn of my head.

I'll get you, Mt. Tom. I'll get you if it's the last thing I do.

179. Westhampton: Lynes Wildlife Sanctuary

2011-07-04T21:19:00.000-07:00

With about an hour of walking left in me for the day, I visited Westhampton and Easthampton. You know, the Hamptons.

After I walked here at Lynes, I met a friend of the donor who gave the land to Mass Audubon who said that the former owners believed there were places on the sanctuary where no human being had ever walked. I could see that, with dense swamps that held no attraction for any man. But, I thought, one must be careful with such thoughts. For a millenium, at least, man has walked this land. And man has many reasons to run and hide, from animals and other human beings. A deterrant swamp might be just the perfect hiding place.

My walk today would be a tough one, as the trails here had not yet been plowed down or cut back. The first field, in particular, was almost impassable because I simply couldn't see the trail. Luckily, someone recently through - and that last someone may have been on a horse, judging by the droppings - had placed a marker at the first main intersection, giving me guidance.

Not far beyond that, I was looking at a wildflower when I noticed a purely white spider crawling on it. It ducked underneath a petal when it sensed me, but I partially caught it with my camera before I moved on. I don't know enough about arachnids to be either scared or not, but I was smart enough to know not to mess with it.

I entered the woods and was about to emerge onto another old field when I heard...wait, could it be?...no, that couldn't be right. It's an endangered species, extremely rare. There's just no way, although the habitat is perfect...