June 21, 2010

At Litchfield, Ct.

Martha Weik called a few days ago. Martha is the woman I met atop Mohawk Mountain on a cool morning in late April. (See “Martha on the Mountain,” April 30) She had made a hiking stick that she wanted to give me. Could we meet? Of course. We met in Litchfield and talked for an hour over coffee, much longer than our first meeting two months ago.

A detail photo of the hiking staff made by Martha Weik

Martha, 82, talked about her family, what her children were doing in their careers, all the interests that keep her busy. I told her about my family, what my young adult kids were up to in their fledgling careers. We got to know each other better. There was almost no talk of politics; in fact, almost no talk of anything topical in the newsy sense. We talked a lot about place, about Connecticut, especially Connecticut over the decades. She is one of those people, a kindred spirit, who loves the history and traditions of the state, who is happy to recall long ago life and landscapes, as you might expect from someone who can trace her lineage to the Mayflower. Did I know where Swift’s Bridge used to be on the Housatonic River in Kent? Yes, I stopped there in my canoe twice, though the bridge was long gone when I went by. Well, she swam there as a child, when there still was a Swift’s Bridge. Did I remember what Deer Island on Bantam Lake used to be like, when the cows roamed there? No, I couldn’t remember the cows, but I remember a quieter Bantam Lake of many years ago. We talked of rivers, mountains, and trails. The hour flew by.

All the while my new walking stick rested against our table. She had taken 7 or 8 newly made hiking staffs from her car and given me a choice. Martha takes saplings, whittles them into shape and, using a wood-burning tool, decorates them, often with whimsical objects or creatures. The walking stick was, she said, a thank you for the words I had written about her. I picked the stick upon which she had etched “Connecticut,” along with images of a fox, a wildflower and the street-side clock that can be seen along Route 44 in Norfolk, one of Connecticut’s special places. Atop the stick Martha etched her initials, and the year. There were decorative touches top to bottom, and a rawhide strap on the handle. This was folk art meant to be used. Next hike it goes into service.

I told her I wanted to write something in this journal about my new walking stick. She wanted to be sure I knew she did not give me a stick to get publicity. I already knew Martha well enough – knew this in our first brief meeting, really – to know that publicity never entered her mind. She made me a walking stick because she is the Martha I met on the Mountain; an exemplar of the best New England traditions.

June 4, 2010

Like just about everything else in the plant world this spring, the mountain laurel is blooming early, perhaps a week early. The delicate, cup-like blooms, white or pink, are just emerging and won’t peak for days, but the shrubs already are showy enough to grab your attention. I know this because I bushwhacked my way through a large colony of laurel Wednesday in the hills of northwestern Connecticut.

Laurel can be dense, and you don’t want to work your way through it any more than necessary. I wasn’t following a trail, and I wasn’t lost, but I made my way through much more laurel than I wanted to. Much more.

Dan Kupiec fishing a mountain brook in Connecticut for brook trout, a species native to the eastern U. S.

But I should start at the beginning.

Dan Kupiec, my neighbor and fishing buddy, called about noon. Did I want to fish for brook trout in the Litchfield Hills? A half-hour later we were traveling west on Route 44. Less than an hour after that we parked on a little roadside pull-over, put on our waders and headed up a mountain, following a brook.

It is not everybody’s cup of tea, but I discovered long ago that one of the great pleasures of fly-fishing is to ascend a mountain brook, flicking a fly into tiny pools, seeking native, wild brook trout. Brook trout in these streams are mostly small – sometimes but a few inches, often only 6- or 7-inches long – and consequently of little interest to many anglers. But they are beautiful fish, with fiery orange bellies and white at the tips of their lower fins. Among yellow and chartreuse dots on their sides are red dots surrounded by powder blue halos. Why evolution settled upon that exact pattern I can not be certain, but in the water they all but disappear and that likely is what it is all about. In any event, they are beautiful. To my mind brook trout are among the handsomest creatures in the animal kingdom. That they are found in mountain brooks only makes them more appealing; a beautiful creature in a beautiful setting. Winslow Homer painted scenes like this.

What is more beautiful - a brook trout or the mountain streams they inhabit?

Dan and I fished and we fished, climbing steeply up the mountain toward a cascade with a big pool where we knew the fish might be bigger. But by the time we approached the pool, it was getting late. Worse, if we were to fish this pool we faced a tricky descent of about 200 feet down an extremely steep bank, then back up. Meanwhile, the trail had become indistinct. We decided to fish that pool another day. I was sure there was a better trail just south of us, so we decided to take that back to the car. It would be an easy downhill trek. We cut through the woods. But there was no trail where mister-know-it-all thought there was.

As I said, we were never lost. All we had to do was return to the brook and follow it back to the car, but that would be slow. Still, even if not lost, we were not, uhh, where I thought we would be either. We headed east, toward the car, blazing our own way, which, we discovered minutes later, was thick with laurel. What might have been a 15-minute walk became a half hour event pushing our way through thick shrubbery.

But we arrived at the car somehow unscratched, our water bottles empty. Dan had plenty of water in the car. Our laurel adventure notwithstanding, it had been a beautiful afternoon communing with the brook and its brook trout. We toasted the outing appropriately, sending mini-cascades of water tumbling down our throats.

May 14, 2010

The leaves are full and fresh, temperatures are ideal, and the songbirds have arrived in Connecticut. This is a great time for picnicking, especially if you can find one of those special, quiet spots where the picnic tables are spread out and the scenery is special. Find an isolated table, bring lunch or dinner, and keep your binoculars ready. The sight of a scarlet tanager alone would make the outing worthwhile.

My outdoors column called Walkabout appears May 29 on the cover of The Hartford Courant Living section. In it I talk about four very special picnic sites around the state, each with privacy and a view. Let’s hope for beautiful weather.

The birthplace of Gen. Nathaniel Lyon, the first Union general killed in the Civil War, is today a little-known and little-visited picnic site within the Natchaug State Forest in Eastford, Ct. The stone chimney is all that remains of the Lyon homestead, and serves as a centerpiece for the picnic area, with four picnic tables, grills and a water pump.

In addition to those mentioned in the column, here are a couple of other very nice picnic spots:

In Bigelow Hollow State Park in Union, take a left off the entrance road to the boat ramp on Bigelow Pond. To the left of the ramp on a rise are a couple of tables with nice views of this quiet pond. In June, mountain laurel blooms profusely along the shore of the pond. Very nice.

In the Housatonic Meadows State Park picnic area in Sharon, stay to the right when you enter and follow the road to a small parking area next to the Housatonic River. You’ll see the table.  Fly-fishers and kayakers are part of the scenery here.