Roaring Brook in anticlimatic

I am something of a ruthless adventurer when my curiosity is piqued. I’ll trespass if I think I can get away with it, and I’ll find someone to ask for permission if I don’t. If they say no, I’ll bribe them. Whatever it takes. I will climb over both shame AND fear for the sake of discovery. It is a hunger, appropriately representing an absolute need at bottom.

When I was a young adolescent, maybe 11 or 12, I had learned to ride a bike and it being the early 90s we children were granted a certain degree of freedom and autonomy relative to the youth of today. I would use this freedom to first circle my block, then the collection of blocks that made my small neighborhood, then the entire town- upper and lower- until eventually I began pressing beyond town, further and further into into the uncharted territory.

And all the places I discovered were nothing short of magical. In every direction I went. It was like all the children’s storybooks I had read to me, represented real places, places that I found on my own, places out of dreams.

The area was once densely populated, and freshly constructed, for wealthy people in the late 1800s coming up to spend their summers on the lake where the average temperature was 78 degrees all season long. During the Gilded Age sprawls of Victorian cottages and grand hotels and various other artisan works were crafted fresh, connected by railroad. They boomed for decades until the great depression pulled the plug on the party, and all the decadent halls and grand Victorian homes fell to vine and ruin- partly. Some survived, some parts lay dormant in remnants, some were repurposed, and some parts were lived in and preserved and kept up all this time. We haven’t seen the level of craftsmanship we saw during the Gilded Age since, so many have found the remnants worth holding onto.

One such remnant I found at the very end of town, just beyond the border of one of the Old cottage associations, when the road stretched out beyond just an endless series of mailboxes, just off the side of the road, in the woods- almost unseen- a great basin, half the size of a tennis court, lurking in the forest made of large stones the size of basketballs held together with old mortar and moss. The walls of this basin came up to my chin, and inside it was a pond with a small creek entering it underneath an archway to the north, and departing it through another archway in the south. They were so big I could climb up on the ledge and walk all the way around and across it.

The pond inside hardly looked like a pond. A great sea of greenery- some type of water plant, covered the entire surface- except for a single narrow carve out where the top of the creek flowed unencumbered between the two archways. I had no idea why it was there, who put it there, why it was hiding in the forest and not a feature or display on something- but I did find a path nearby that lead in two directions. The first lead down to the beach, where another stone basin- obviously made by the same people- acted as a decorative transition for the stream to enter the lake. It formed a large 3-sided square that jutted out slightly like a pronged fork, with two mid sized spires at the end- like little light houses, or guards.

Back the way I came, I found the trail also ran into the woods, past the first basin I found- again, following the creek. So, walking my bike, I stepped deeply into the woods of the complete unknown to my 12 year old self.

Not far down the path, the trail hit a wall- a bluff, too steep to climb. The trail hooked left and made its way up this hill, with old wooden logs placed in the dirt as stairs. At the top I could see an opening, where the trail spilled out into the light again. So, dragging my bike with me the whole way, up the hill with the periodic wooden log stairs I went, until I stepped out into the light, and found myself..............

On a sidewalk. An ancient paved sidewalk, with old rusty gas lanterns on posts every thirty feet or so. This sidewalk snaked along the crest of the bluff, and featured a bird’s eye view of the lake, tree tops, and entire surrounded region from very high up. A collection of shrubbery, about chest high, functioned as a guard rail between the path and the very steep, very tall hill. Realizing I could ride my bike once again, I set off down this path to find out where this rainbow ended.

Eventually there were houses with tiny sidewalks of their own leading to their front doors. No driveways, or vehicles could I see anywhere. It was like a dream, or other dimension. Little white picket fences, and gates, and rows of beautiful flowers in flower beds, and beautiful old homes completely buried in growth and greenery.

The sidewalk went on and on, until eventually it past one last very small house- with a little gate and a cute old fence- then entered a very narrow section, veering away from the bluff and turning between two overgrown hedges. I had to dismount my bike, and push my way through. Not far, there was another sharp bend, and I found myself staring down the length of an ancient wooden foot bridge, just wide enough for a single person to walk. Underneath this bridge was the first road I had seen since I left the streets for the first stone basin, and on the far side of this bridge was someone’s back yard. I could see a roof line, and one of those little play houses with a red slide through the trees and shrubs and sunlight on the other side of the bridge. I crossed, just to do it, and to verify the end of it- finally, and turned back home the way I came.