The Universe is a Strange Place
Shhh. Did you hear that? That’s the sound of a revolution going on, a revolution in thinking. What, you didn’t know about it? Well, I guess you don’t keep your ear to the ground when it comes to high energy particle physics, but you should. Some of the things that are known, and some of the things that are being discussed as possible, are truly mind blowing. These are things that up until now have only been the providence of science fiction, not actual science. The implications of this research can alter the way we look at the world, like nothing lese that has ever come before in the history of mankind! It’s that amazing! Here are just a few of the things that are of interest. Keep in mind this is real science stuff!
* There may be multiple universes, with different copies of you doing different things. If you make a choice in this universe your alter you makes another choice in another universe. There may be an infinite number of these universes.
* The universe we occupy may be made up of as many as 10 dimensions. We only experience four of those. The other dimensions are curled up in extremely small units called Calabi-Yau Manifolds.
* The universe is made up of an infinite number of very small strings ( small is 10 to the minus 33 power, 1 followed by 34 zeros ). These strings vibrate and create the universe we see and feel.
* Anyone who has taken chemistry is familiar with the standard model of the atom, with a nucleus and electrons which orbit the nucleus in different shells. When energy is added to the system, the electrons move into higher orbits. However, they just don’t move in physical space, they disappear and then reappear elsewhere.
* Most of matter is really made up of empty space, or put another way; most of matter is made up of nothing!
* Two particles that are created at the same time are bound together in some mysterious way. If a force acts on one particle it effects the other particle instantaneously, regardless of how far apart those particles are ( even across light years )!
* There is no evidence to suggest that the inflation of the universe will stop, it may continue forever expanding.
* The shape of the universe is flat!
* The universe was more organized in the past and is moving into a state of decreased organization or entropy. The universe will continue to cool and become less and less dense.
* Matter is really energy bundled up. Light and other energy types are both particles and waves!
We may look back and see that this is a golden age for physics and astronomy. I believe the implication of this research is earth shaking. If we could implement technology based on these findings, it could change the nature of who we are profoundly!
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
A Lament
There is never enough time
to open my mind.
There is never enough time
to just be.
There is never enough time
to put an end to the war.
There is never enough time
for me.
Life hurls you on
at a tremendous rate,
sending you to
some unseen fate
and for all the things
they say you cant do
just being alive
is killing you.
to open my mind.
There is never enough time
to just be.
There is never enough time
to put an end to the war.
There is never enough time
for me.
Life hurls you on
at a tremendous rate,
sending you to
some unseen fate
and for all the things
they say you cant do
just being alive
is killing you.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Hey, I Have a Coupon for That!
I hate grocery shopping. It’s not the shopping I disdain it’s the other shoppers. I always seem to go on the same day that they bring all the elderly people, all the crazy people, or both! Why do Edna and Agnes have stand write in front of the meat section, the busiest section of the grocery store, to swap recipes and rousing tales of falling and not being able to get up? What kills me are the elderly folks who will take ½ an hour to decide what sort of yogurt to buy because there is a 5 cent price difference. “Damn it, Gladys, just F’in pick one, I’m molding here!” Weren’t these same people buying their weeks worth of groceries at Cumberland Farms the other day when I was in a hurry to get gas and get to work? And you know, they always get all dolled up in their Saturday-Going-to-the-Grocery-Store finery, replete with a sensible, orthopedic shoes, and pillbox hat.
In my town, there is always a busload of women with miracle children at the store too. What’s a miracle child? A child from a woman SO ugly that it’s a miracle that a man would have sex with her. It just proves the point that men are pigs. However, I have a secret technique for dieting that works a charm when you are trying to buy healthy foods. I pick out the dirtiest and largest Ugh woman out of the herd and I look in her shopping cart. Then I avoid anything she is buying!
The worst part about shopping is that you always end up in some sort of ordained-by-fate cyclical pattern of meeting the same morons in each aisle you go down. It’s always the person with more toes than teeth, whose kids give the impression that they aspire to the Guiness Book of World Records as contestants in a bathing avoidance contest. You try to escape these people, but it doesn’t work. They are always there. You still meet them down every single F’in aisle you go down. By the time you have finished shopping, you are on a first name basis, “Hey, there Cleatis, I see Clamato is on sale.” And one of these days, when the kids go by me in their wheelie sneakers, I’m gonna stick out my foot and trip them into an end cap of Ragu! Little Bastards!
I think I am going to start shopping at 1am. Its too late for most folks and the drunks aren’t out of the bars yet.
In my town, there is always a busload of women with miracle children at the store too. What’s a miracle child? A child from a woman SO ugly that it’s a miracle that a man would have sex with her. It just proves the point that men are pigs. However, I have a secret technique for dieting that works a charm when you are trying to buy healthy foods. I pick out the dirtiest and largest Ugh woman out of the herd and I look in her shopping cart. Then I avoid anything she is buying!
The worst part about shopping is that you always end up in some sort of ordained-by-fate cyclical pattern of meeting the same morons in each aisle you go down. It’s always the person with more toes than teeth, whose kids give the impression that they aspire to the Guiness Book of World Records as contestants in a bathing avoidance contest. You try to escape these people, but it doesn’t work. They are always there. You still meet them down every single F’in aisle you go down. By the time you have finished shopping, you are on a first name basis, “Hey, there Cleatis, I see Clamato is on sale.” And one of these days, when the kids go by me in their wheelie sneakers, I’m gonna stick out my foot and trip them into an end cap of Ragu! Little Bastards!
I think I am going to start shopping at 1am. Its too late for most folks and the drunks aren’t out of the bars yet.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Hall of Shame
I don’t know if you heard it, but a great sacrilege has occurred. An important pillar of our culture has been brought low and its virtue called into question. Am I speaking of yet another mark in the seemingly endless parade of political scandals that dot our social landscape? No. I refer to the fact that Madonna was recently inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame!
Now, I am no big fan of Madonna, but that’s not what has me irked. It’s not that she isn’t deserving of some recognition. What ticks me off is that someone must have forgotten the name of the institution to which they suggest she belong; ROCK AND ROLL! If she was to be admitted into the Pop Diva’s Hall of Distinction, OK, or even the Modern Musical Heritage Temple of Celebrity, I’d hardly strangle an electron over it, but admitting Madonna into the Rock and Roll hall of Fame is like Harvard awarding Emmett Kelly tenure.
There are certain things that are just not meant to go together, like peanut butter and sauerkraut. When I think of this insult, I hear the Sesame Street song, “Which One of These Things is Not Like the Other?” No wonder Ozzie keeps pulling his name from consideration to be inducted.
In one fell swoop, I have lost all respect for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, not that I had much to begin with. In my mind Rock and Roll is about rebelling against the establishment; an establishment which can be exemplified by this so called Hall of Fame. Thus, I say, turn the music up and tear that shit down! It ain’t Rock and Roll anymore! Long Live Rock!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Now, I am no big fan of Madonna, but that’s not what has me irked. It’s not that she isn’t deserving of some recognition. What ticks me off is that someone must have forgotten the name of the institution to which they suggest she belong; ROCK AND ROLL! If she was to be admitted into the Pop Diva’s Hall of Distinction, OK, or even the Modern Musical Heritage Temple of Celebrity, I’d hardly strangle an electron over it, but admitting Madonna into the Rock and Roll hall of Fame is like Harvard awarding Emmett Kelly tenure.
There are certain things that are just not meant to go together, like peanut butter and sauerkraut. When I think of this insult, I hear the Sesame Street song, “Which One of These Things is Not Like the Other?” No wonder Ozzie keeps pulling his name from consideration to be inducted.
In one fell swoop, I have lost all respect for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, not that I had much to begin with. In my mind Rock and Roll is about rebelling against the establishment; an establishment which can be exemplified by this so called Hall of Fame. Thus, I say, turn the music up and tear that shit down! It ain’t Rock and Roll anymore! Long Live Rock!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Easter Bunny Brings Spring!
Today is the first day of Spring; the Vernal Equinox. The day when the sun crosses the first point of Aries; one of the two points on the Celestial Sphere where the Ecliptic and the Celestial Equator cross one another. The First Point of Aries, which is actually in Pisces, defines the zero-point for Right Ascension. When the Sun reaches the First Point of Aries, as it does once each year, an equinox occurs. In the northern hemisphere, this is the Vernal Equinox, before which the North Pole is tipped away from the Sun, giving shorter days. After the equinox, the North Pole is angled toward the Sun, starting to make days longer, and moving the northern hemisphere into spring and summer. Today the amount of light is exactly equal to the amount of darkness; 12 hours of each.
Spring sprung at 5:50am this morning. Its not just Spring on the calendar. I have bulbs poking their heads up out of the ground and there have been numerous sightings of warm weather birds returning. If you want to see the wonders of Orion, do so now or waive goodbye, because it’s on its way west. This Sunday is also Easter. This is one of the earliest Easters in memory. There won’t be another Easter this early for over 200 years. Easter is calculated to be the first Sunday after the first full moon of spring. The full moon is this Saturday. Happy spring, happy vernal equinox, happy St. Patrick’s day ( belated ), happy Good Friday, happy Easter!!!!!!!!!!
Spring sprung at 5:50am this morning. Its not just Spring on the calendar. I have bulbs poking their heads up out of the ground and there have been numerous sightings of warm weather birds returning. If you want to see the wonders of Orion, do so now or waive goodbye, because it’s on its way west. This Sunday is also Easter. This is one of the earliest Easters in memory. There won’t be another Easter this early for over 200 years. Easter is calculated to be the first Sunday after the first full moon of spring. The full moon is this Saturday. Happy spring, happy vernal equinox, happy St. Patrick’s day ( belated ), happy Good Friday, happy Easter!!!!!!!!!!
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
To Build a Fire
To build a fire: I have never met a person who does not like a nice fire. Fires are comforting, warming and entertaining. When you are camping, there is nothing like having a campfire. However, it’s important that the fire REMAIN in the fireplace, of course, which can sometimes be a might tricky; as fire has a mind of its own, which I have learned the hard way.
A few years ago I went camping at Pillsbury State Park in New Hampshire; a park very much off the beaten path. Since I did not have much dry wood, I waited until it was nearly completely dark before I started my fire. By then I was surely looking forward to the fire. However, It only sputtered and smoked and basically just kept going out. A pall of smoke lay about the now completely darkened site, but that was the only sign of fire.
I was all alone except me and my dog. I used up quite a bit of my kindling and I still had no fire. I have found that while it’s easy to build a fire, getting it hot enough to be self sustaining is the challenge. I had one time attended a fire safety demonstration where the instructor had a hard time getting a fire started with a tub full of kerosene, and a road flare! How much more difficult is it with wet wood and a Bic?
Since I had just finished dinner, I still had my backpacking stove out. A backpacking stove is a small, one burner affair, big enough to boil just a quart of water. It uses a small gas bottle filled with liquid white gas. My stove had a small leak around the seal where the stove met the bottle. I found that by shaking the bottle a few drops at a time would come out. I began using this technique to keep the fire going in hopes that it would get the main logs to alight.
I had always been told that fire can hop up a stream of gas, but I had never really experienced it and therefore did not realize how FAST it can do this. In less than a blink of an eye, the flame jumped up from between the logs, followed up the stream of fuel, literally hopping from drop to drop. Before I knew it, the fire was on the stove and bottle configuration in my hand. I was on fire.
Of course, your natural response is to try and shake the thing hard enough to blow out the flames, which of course I did, which of course caused more fuel to come out, and which of course caused the fire in my hand to grow. I now had a large ball of flame in my exposed hand and it was moving up my arm as it grew. It wasn’t hot, yet, but I could feel the heat expanding too. Not knowing what to do, I threw the stove and bottle on the ground.
That was probably a bad move, but I wasn’t sure what else to do. As soon as the bottle hit the ground, more gas than ever began to fan out and with it the flames too. Now I had a fairly large circle of fire all around me and it was growing. Still not knowing what else to do, I kicked the bottle into the fire pit, which sent it careening into the rocks surrounding the pit. Again, probably a bad move, but at this point, I was afraid the bottle was going to explode. My dog just stood there staring at the fire, slowly backing up step by step.
He didn’t know what to do either. I think he may have given out a soft “woof” once, but I couldn’t be sure.
When I kicked the bottle this caused the plastic valve stem, which was now melting, to disengage from the gas bottle itself. The remaining fuel, from a bottle which had almost been full, added itself to the fire circle. In an instant the fire doubled in size, to an area approximately 20 feet in diameter, with me standing on the outer edge. I looked around frantically for something to put the fire out, but I had nothing but a small amount of water. I grabbed my canteen and upended it over the fire to no effect. I also tried stamping on the fire, but I just got the gas, and thus, the fire, on my boots and wherever I stamped down, larger flames erupted. I imagined that I looked like some sort of crazed Indian dancing around the fire with flames sprouting from my every step.
In my minds eye, I saw myself running to the ranger station several miles way ( this was a primitive campsite where you had to park your car and hike in a few hundred yards to your campsite ). I also saw the woods fully engulfed with flame and the headline of the newspaper the next day “Camper Starts Fire, Acres Burned.”
Fortunately, this type of gas burns quickly and almost as fast as it started, it was out. The bottle, which had been red and was now charred black, was still in the fire. Tongues of flame licked out from the open neck, but it seemed the explosive danger was passed. The plastic valve laid nearby, nothing more than a heap of slag.
In a period of time which lasted on a few seconds, the crisis went from inception, the original spark up the stream of gas, to a raging inferno, to the fire being almost spent.
I sat down at a nearby picnic table and said “Whoa”! Disaster had been averted. I looked at Rascal, my dog, the flames from the remaining fire reflecting off his eyes in the dark. He just stood there with his tongue hanging out. If he could have, I think he would have said “whoa” too.
Two positive things came out of this experience, 1) I have a new found respect for the Beast which is fire and 2) My wood finally lit and I had a pleasant campfire for the remainder of the night.
Ah, there’s nothing like a nice campfire!
A few years ago I went camping at Pillsbury State Park in New Hampshire; a park very much off the beaten path. Since I did not have much dry wood, I waited until it was nearly completely dark before I started my fire. By then I was surely looking forward to the fire. However, It only sputtered and smoked and basically just kept going out. A pall of smoke lay about the now completely darkened site, but that was the only sign of fire.
I was all alone except me and my dog. I used up quite a bit of my kindling and I still had no fire. I have found that while it’s easy to build a fire, getting it hot enough to be self sustaining is the challenge. I had one time attended a fire safety demonstration where the instructor had a hard time getting a fire started with a tub full of kerosene, and a road flare! How much more difficult is it with wet wood and a Bic?
Since I had just finished dinner, I still had my backpacking stove out. A backpacking stove is a small, one burner affair, big enough to boil just a quart of water. It uses a small gas bottle filled with liquid white gas. My stove had a small leak around the seal where the stove met the bottle. I found that by shaking the bottle a few drops at a time would come out. I began using this technique to keep the fire going in hopes that it would get the main logs to alight.
I had always been told that fire can hop up a stream of gas, but I had never really experienced it and therefore did not realize how FAST it can do this. In less than a blink of an eye, the flame jumped up from between the logs, followed up the stream of fuel, literally hopping from drop to drop. Before I knew it, the fire was on the stove and bottle configuration in my hand. I was on fire.
Of course, your natural response is to try and shake the thing hard enough to blow out the flames, which of course I did, which of course caused more fuel to come out, and which of course caused the fire in my hand to grow. I now had a large ball of flame in my exposed hand and it was moving up my arm as it grew. It wasn’t hot, yet, but I could feel the heat expanding too. Not knowing what to do, I threw the stove and bottle on the ground.
That was probably a bad move, but I wasn’t sure what else to do. As soon as the bottle hit the ground, more gas than ever began to fan out and with it the flames too. Now I had a fairly large circle of fire all around me and it was growing. Still not knowing what else to do, I kicked the bottle into the fire pit, which sent it careening into the rocks surrounding the pit. Again, probably a bad move, but at this point, I was afraid the bottle was going to explode. My dog just stood there staring at the fire, slowly backing up step by step.
He didn’t know what to do either. I think he may have given out a soft “woof” once, but I couldn’t be sure.
When I kicked the bottle this caused the plastic valve stem, which was now melting, to disengage from the gas bottle itself. The remaining fuel, from a bottle which had almost been full, added itself to the fire circle. In an instant the fire doubled in size, to an area approximately 20 feet in diameter, with me standing on the outer edge. I looked around frantically for something to put the fire out, but I had nothing but a small amount of water. I grabbed my canteen and upended it over the fire to no effect. I also tried stamping on the fire, but I just got the gas, and thus, the fire, on my boots and wherever I stamped down, larger flames erupted. I imagined that I looked like some sort of crazed Indian dancing around the fire with flames sprouting from my every step.
In my minds eye, I saw myself running to the ranger station several miles way ( this was a primitive campsite where you had to park your car and hike in a few hundred yards to your campsite ). I also saw the woods fully engulfed with flame and the headline of the newspaper the next day “Camper Starts Fire, Acres Burned.”
Fortunately, this type of gas burns quickly and almost as fast as it started, it was out. The bottle, which had been red and was now charred black, was still in the fire. Tongues of flame licked out from the open neck, but it seemed the explosive danger was passed. The plastic valve laid nearby, nothing more than a heap of slag.
In a period of time which lasted on a few seconds, the crisis went from inception, the original spark up the stream of gas, to a raging inferno, to the fire being almost spent.
I sat down at a nearby picnic table and said “Whoa”! Disaster had been averted. I looked at Rascal, my dog, the flames from the remaining fire reflecting off his eyes in the dark. He just stood there with his tongue hanging out. If he could have, I think he would have said “whoa” too.
Two positive things came out of this experience, 1) I have a new found respect for the Beast which is fire and 2) My wood finally lit and I had a pleasant campfire for the remainder of the night.
Ah, there’s nothing like a nice campfire!
Monday, March 17, 2008
Uncivil Air Patrol
In my early to middle teens, I was a member of an organization called Civil Air Patrol
( CAP ). It is a civilian organization that is affiliated with the Air Force. As an organization, it has been around since before WW II, when CAP members did spotting work looking for enemy submarines off the US Coast. I was involved for about 1 year or so. It was a big step up from boy scouts, and it was a lot of fun. We had to wear uniforms, and while that wasn’t so much fun, we got to do some really cool things, like search and rescue missions, flying, and camping, except they called it bivouacking.
One weekend we went camping at the Plainville Fish and Game club. It wasn’t much of a club, I don’t recall there being a pond, so there was no fishing on site, and there was just one lowly building, a one room cement affair with no real furniture to speak of.
We didn’t care, and we pitched a large tent right outside the building. It was an old military style canvas tent and we slept on cots, I think there was about 10 of us in there. During the day we practiced a variety of military type activities such as orientation and rock climbing, and at night we played flash light tag and the like.
It was sort of cold, so we decided that we were going to have a fire in the club house. It was wet so it was hard to find dry wood. We managed to scrounge some up, but our supply was low. There was however an old, broken, wooden, pinball table in the club house, the only real.. anything… in the building, and so it was quickly cut up for kindling. Everything went into the fire, mechanism, wires, everything. It smelled really bad, but it did burn a variety of lovely shades. I think the death of the pinball table was a sign, because the weekend got really crazy.
Oh, things started out quite orderly, but soon dissolved into a Lord of the Flies kind of situation. It started the first night of the 2 night trip. Some older teenagers came by and struck up a conversation with some of our older CAP members. The conversation involved beer, and the next thing you know, the older kids are gone. We hung around waiting for them for awhile, hoping to have some camping-type fun, but after a few hours, some of us went looking for them. Primarily because we had to station a “watch” someone to stay up for a certain period of time, juts like in the military. Someone had to be up at all times, and we did not want to have to do the whole things ourselves.
I remember that it was lightly raining, and we followed the trail the others had taken. It wasn’t long and the trail started to wind itself down to a road. There were no immediate homes in sight. The trail followed some high tension wires and as we stood under them we could hear them faintly snapping and hissing in the rain. They were also lightly glowing as well, an eerie sight.
The older kids did come back and they were all slightly inebriated. I hit the hay somewhat early as I was tired, and I had pulled watch duty for the dead of the night. When my time came, I was woken up by the previous night watch guy. I went outside and sat in a lawn chair. It had stopped raining, but things were still damp. I curled up in the chair with a blanket and promptly fell asleep, I missed waking up my relief and everyone just slept through the night. I never got any grief for it because I think everyone was happy to just sleep.
The next day we did quite a bit of repelling practice. One of the older guys climbed a tree to the top and affixed a rope. The rope was pulled taught across our camping area at an angle and we each took turns sliding down it on various accoutrements, from a type of sling, to something that was nothing more than just a big meat hook on a pulley.
The previous evenings nefarious AWOL trip left many of the guys wanting to go to the land of Buzz, and many talked longingly of alcohol consumption. Some one had smuggled in a few beers, and this just got people even more primed. One fellow said that you could get inebriated by drinking a type of tea, Sarsaparilla, I think it was. He said he knew how to make it so we spent several hours locating the correct plants and then boiling them to make the tea. It tasted awful, but everyone seemed to really be enjoying themselves. It turned out that the tea we made was really Sassafras tea, which supposedly had no intoxicating properties at all.
Despite that fact, people started to get good and hopped up as nightfall came. Again, we all hung out in the cinderblock building to have a fire, and again, we had some difficulty in getting it going because the wood was wet. We discovered that powdered Kool-aid with sugar caused the fire to behave in quite a lively manner and soon none of us had any Kool-aid left. Not satisfied with the size of the fire, older boys cut down a few slender trees, climbed up on to the flat roof of the building and began putting the trees down the chimney. This had the desired effect and pretty soon not only did we have a nice fire going, but parts of the roof were burning too. Smoke was coming out of various locations in and around the roof line and large palls of smoke were also billowing out of the chimney and into the building, such that we had to go back outside, where it had once again begun to lightly rain.
The rest of the evening passed without further incident, though we all kept a wary eye on the roof for fear of it actually bursting into flame. The next day saw us do some more repelling work, this time with the rope tied around the building’s chimney on one end and the bumper of a car on the other. Since the almost-fire of the night before, the guys attitude regarding the building became somewhat more nonchalant. A small group of guys had found a piece of pipe with cement on the end, which they discovered made very satisfying holes in the cinder block walls when thrown like a spear. In short order the side of the wall looked like Swiss cheese. I myself had several goes with the pipe.
In the meantime, we were also preparing to leave. People were packing and taking down the tent. The guy whose car it was that the rope was attached simply got in, started it up and gunned it. Dirt flew everywhere in a large plume, like the wake left behind a jet boat. The rope was still tied to the top of the chimney. We all held our breath as the rope stretched. What would give first, the rope or the chimney? With no audible sound, the chimney came away from the building, not just the top, but nearly the whole thing peeled away from the wall. As it fell it tumbled apart in a cascading rain of brick.
Everyone stopped and stared in silence, and then as a group we all begin to laugh; letting out one big belly laugh. We danced around hooting and hollering with tears rolling down our cheeks. It took us quite awhile to stop laughing, making it much more difficult to pack.
We never did return to the Plainville Fish and Game club.
( CAP ). It is a civilian organization that is affiliated with the Air Force. As an organization, it has been around since before WW II, when CAP members did spotting work looking for enemy submarines off the US Coast. I was involved for about 1 year or so. It was a big step up from boy scouts, and it was a lot of fun. We had to wear uniforms, and while that wasn’t so much fun, we got to do some really cool things, like search and rescue missions, flying, and camping, except they called it bivouacking.
One weekend we went camping at the Plainville Fish and Game club. It wasn’t much of a club, I don’t recall there being a pond, so there was no fishing on site, and there was just one lowly building, a one room cement affair with no real furniture to speak of.
We didn’t care, and we pitched a large tent right outside the building. It was an old military style canvas tent and we slept on cots, I think there was about 10 of us in there. During the day we practiced a variety of military type activities such as orientation and rock climbing, and at night we played flash light tag and the like.
It was sort of cold, so we decided that we were going to have a fire in the club house. It was wet so it was hard to find dry wood. We managed to scrounge some up, but our supply was low. There was however an old, broken, wooden, pinball table in the club house, the only real.. anything… in the building, and so it was quickly cut up for kindling. Everything went into the fire, mechanism, wires, everything. It smelled really bad, but it did burn a variety of lovely shades. I think the death of the pinball table was a sign, because the weekend got really crazy.
Oh, things started out quite orderly, but soon dissolved into a Lord of the Flies kind of situation. It started the first night of the 2 night trip. Some older teenagers came by and struck up a conversation with some of our older CAP members. The conversation involved beer, and the next thing you know, the older kids are gone. We hung around waiting for them for awhile, hoping to have some camping-type fun, but after a few hours, some of us went looking for them. Primarily because we had to station a “watch” someone to stay up for a certain period of time, juts like in the military. Someone had to be up at all times, and we did not want to have to do the whole things ourselves.
I remember that it was lightly raining, and we followed the trail the others had taken. It wasn’t long and the trail started to wind itself down to a road. There were no immediate homes in sight. The trail followed some high tension wires and as we stood under them we could hear them faintly snapping and hissing in the rain. They were also lightly glowing as well, an eerie sight.
The older kids did come back and they were all slightly inebriated. I hit the hay somewhat early as I was tired, and I had pulled watch duty for the dead of the night. When my time came, I was woken up by the previous night watch guy. I went outside and sat in a lawn chair. It had stopped raining, but things were still damp. I curled up in the chair with a blanket and promptly fell asleep, I missed waking up my relief and everyone just slept through the night. I never got any grief for it because I think everyone was happy to just sleep.
The next day we did quite a bit of repelling practice. One of the older guys climbed a tree to the top and affixed a rope. The rope was pulled taught across our camping area at an angle and we each took turns sliding down it on various accoutrements, from a type of sling, to something that was nothing more than just a big meat hook on a pulley.
The previous evenings nefarious AWOL trip left many of the guys wanting to go to the land of Buzz, and many talked longingly of alcohol consumption. Some one had smuggled in a few beers, and this just got people even more primed. One fellow said that you could get inebriated by drinking a type of tea, Sarsaparilla, I think it was. He said he knew how to make it so we spent several hours locating the correct plants and then boiling them to make the tea. It tasted awful, but everyone seemed to really be enjoying themselves. It turned out that the tea we made was really Sassafras tea, which supposedly had no intoxicating properties at all.
Despite that fact, people started to get good and hopped up as nightfall came. Again, we all hung out in the cinderblock building to have a fire, and again, we had some difficulty in getting it going because the wood was wet. We discovered that powdered Kool-aid with sugar caused the fire to behave in quite a lively manner and soon none of us had any Kool-aid left. Not satisfied with the size of the fire, older boys cut down a few slender trees, climbed up on to the flat roof of the building and began putting the trees down the chimney. This had the desired effect and pretty soon not only did we have a nice fire going, but parts of the roof were burning too. Smoke was coming out of various locations in and around the roof line and large palls of smoke were also billowing out of the chimney and into the building, such that we had to go back outside, where it had once again begun to lightly rain.
The rest of the evening passed without further incident, though we all kept a wary eye on the roof for fear of it actually bursting into flame. The next day saw us do some more repelling work, this time with the rope tied around the building’s chimney on one end and the bumper of a car on the other. Since the almost-fire of the night before, the guys attitude regarding the building became somewhat more nonchalant. A small group of guys had found a piece of pipe with cement on the end, which they discovered made very satisfying holes in the cinder block walls when thrown like a spear. In short order the side of the wall looked like Swiss cheese. I myself had several goes with the pipe.
In the meantime, we were also preparing to leave. People were packing and taking down the tent. The guy whose car it was that the rope was attached simply got in, started it up and gunned it. Dirt flew everywhere in a large plume, like the wake left behind a jet boat. The rope was still tied to the top of the chimney. We all held our breath as the rope stretched. What would give first, the rope or the chimney? With no audible sound, the chimney came away from the building, not just the top, but nearly the whole thing peeled away from the wall. As it fell it tumbled apart in a cascading rain of brick.
Everyone stopped and stared in silence, and then as a group we all begin to laugh; letting out one big belly laugh. We danced around hooting and hollering with tears rolling down our cheeks. It took us quite awhile to stop laughing, making it much more difficult to pack.
We never did return to the Plainville Fish and Game club.
Friday, March 14, 2008
EATS
Is it me, or are chefs today getting too carried away? It seems that every recipe I read, or every menu from a highbrow restaurant, has the most outrageous mélange of ingredients. It reminds me of those “bafflegab thesauruses”. You know what I mean, the sheets where there are three columns of words and you pick a word from each column and it makes a word that sounds like a serious word, but is really just meaningless nonsense, like “adjudicated organizational management”.
Anyway, maybe it’s because chefs are running out of ideas, or that we have finally reached the outer boundary of what can be done to normal food and we now have to create a new synthesis of ingredients to create anything new, like finding new elements on the periodic table. New elements aren’t found in nature, but are only man made; we have run out of the “normal” elements.
Here are a few examples of what I am talking about. Perhaps you will want to try one of these delicacies yourself!
Pickeled hens brains on a bed of baby beets with pepper encrusted asparagus and a sour kraut au’ ju. For dessert, a flaming ugly fruit sorbet with chocolate sauce and a sprinkling of Fijian coconut shells.
Yum! Or how about,
Manatee pancreas stuffed with rhubarb and tofu, glazed with iced chipotle and served with hominy grits and a side of California Sea Kelp.
Doesn’t that sound delish! Or, one more,
Toe of Sasquatch burnished with the scrapings from old copper pipes served with a side of squid tentacles ( in its own ink, of course ) with Fly Agaric mushrooms and some green stuff that was growing on the grout in the men’s room!
Hhhmm, I’m getting hungry just thinking about that! How about you?
Asian chefs are the worst for this sort of thing, so much so there is even a television show, Iron Chef, where a panel of expert chefs is given the craziest ingredients and one hour to come up with a mouth watering delight. In Asian cooking if it doesn’t look gross, taste worse and be nearly poisonous, it’s just not worth eating. They practically challenge each other to eat things like,
1000 year old sea turtle penises dipped in pond scum and left out to dry in the sun for month and then drenched in camel vomit.
Well, it’s nearly lunch time and after writing this I am famished. Think of these recipes when you are planning your next dinner party. Your guests will relish your cooking acumen. Bon appetite!
Anyway, maybe it’s because chefs are running out of ideas, or that we have finally reached the outer boundary of what can be done to normal food and we now have to create a new synthesis of ingredients to create anything new, like finding new elements on the periodic table. New elements aren’t found in nature, but are only man made; we have run out of the “normal” elements.
Here are a few examples of what I am talking about. Perhaps you will want to try one of these delicacies yourself!
Pickeled hens brains on a bed of baby beets with pepper encrusted asparagus and a sour kraut au’ ju. For dessert, a flaming ugly fruit sorbet with chocolate sauce and a sprinkling of Fijian coconut shells.
Yum! Or how about,
Manatee pancreas stuffed with rhubarb and tofu, glazed with iced chipotle and served with hominy grits and a side of California Sea Kelp.
Doesn’t that sound delish! Or, one more,
Toe of Sasquatch burnished with the scrapings from old copper pipes served with a side of squid tentacles ( in its own ink, of course ) with Fly Agaric mushrooms and some green stuff that was growing on the grout in the men’s room!
Hhhmm, I’m getting hungry just thinking about that! How about you?
Asian chefs are the worst for this sort of thing, so much so there is even a television show, Iron Chef, where a panel of expert chefs is given the craziest ingredients and one hour to come up with a mouth watering delight. In Asian cooking if it doesn’t look gross, taste worse and be nearly poisonous, it’s just not worth eating. They practically challenge each other to eat things like,
1000 year old sea turtle penises dipped in pond scum and left out to dry in the sun for month and then drenched in camel vomit.
Well, it’s nearly lunch time and after writing this I am famished. Think of these recipes when you are planning your next dinner party. Your guests will relish your cooking acumen. Bon appetite!
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Fair and Share
OK, I am sick and tired of hearing about how men don’t share the house work. Women are always reminding men that dishes and laundry don’t do themselves. Now, I know that I can’t speak for all men, but I certainly share the house work, as do most of the men I know. I do laundry on occasion, fill and empty the dishwasher when needed, clean the house in a general way and cook when I have to. Now, it may not be an equal share, but I do share. However, to get a sense as to what is a “fair share” one must look at the totality of things that need to be done around the house, not just the most obvious. For example, I also shovel the snow, rake the leaves and mow the lawn. If you want to get picky about this whole “sharing thing”, then we need to look at these factors as well. My wife and I have lived in our house for 10 years and how many times has my wife mowed the lawn? Precisely zero times. How about, shoveling snow, or even something as simple as taking out the trash? To be fair, I believe that she has done these things on maybe one or two occasions, ever. Distasteful projects go to me, like the time my wife tried to flush a comb down the toilet. “Oh”, I hear you say, “you can’t flush a comb down the toilet”, and you are right. It gets stuck, but my wife did not know this and I ended up having to take the toilet up off the floor and snake it. There was also the time when the basement flooded because the gutters were clogged causing them to spill over, thus flooding the basement. I had to spend several hours out in the wet, cold rain to fix that little problem.
Now in fairness, I know that there are plenty of distasteful things that my wife does also, like cleaning up after the dog barfs. My point is however, that next time you, a woman, gets upset that your man isn’t sharing the work load, ask yourself when the last time you shared the responsibility of changing the car’s oil? It doesn’t change itself you know.
Now in fairness, I know that there are plenty of distasteful things that my wife does also, like cleaning up after the dog barfs. My point is however, that next time you, a woman, gets upset that your man isn’t sharing the work load, ask yourself when the last time you shared the responsibility of changing the car’s oil? It doesn’t change itself you know.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Sickos
Having been out of work sick with the flu for the past two days, I have had the misfortune of not only being sick, but also of being subjected to daytime television as well. As a result, I have been sickened twice.
Someone once referred to television as the great wasteland. Now I know why. What I have witnessed has made me very afraid for the future of mankind. If we assume that marketers address their products to the viewing audience, we can by inference, make some assumptions about that audience. Here is what I have concluded;
The person watching daytime television is a woman, most likely disabled and obviously in need of legal assistance. Why else would there be some many commercials like those for the Trantolo and Trantolo law firm, Get Carter legal services or businesses whose goal it is to get the viewer on that assuredly deserved Social Security Disability? Commercials such as these make up approximately 50% of all ads in between television shows.
Our assumed viewer has a raft of physical maladies including, being overweight, problems with menstruation, age spots, headaches and toenail fungus. While her man is not at home, he is not spared her concern as I have inferred from all the commercials for medications dealing with prostrate trouble and erectile dysfunction; or perhaps these are aimed at the few, decidedly elderly, male viewers of this dribble. We are a sorry lot.
If our viewer is unable to get that coveted disability certification, there are a number of schools promising a shortened easy path to fabulous careers and good money; careers in fields such as nursing, accounting and veterinary science. How come none of these schools help you get jobs in the legal or pharmaceutical fields, as clearly there is big money there as well?
The commercials are not the only insights we have into our viewing audience. The shows themselves give us a number of clues. Clearly, our average viewer has a good deal of anxiety. She is concerned about how to raise her children, how to keep romance kindled in her relationships ( see previous comment about medications that treat erectile dysfunction ) and about paying the bills. Go figure?! She also must have a good deal of time on her hands during the day, otherwise why would “In the Loop” suggest that you participate in the show live via e-mail and why would there be hours and hours of programming dedicated to Soap Operas ( which by the way has little to do with either soap or opera )?
I would comment on shows like Gerry Springer or Oprah, but I think they speak for themselves. For me, I am going to work tomorrow, sick or not. I just can’t stand one more day of watching daytime television. Now, excuse me, I must run, the Guiding Light is coming on.
Someone once referred to television as the great wasteland. Now I know why. What I have witnessed has made me very afraid for the future of mankind. If we assume that marketers address their products to the viewing audience, we can by inference, make some assumptions about that audience. Here is what I have concluded;
The person watching daytime television is a woman, most likely disabled and obviously in need of legal assistance. Why else would there be some many commercials like those for the Trantolo and Trantolo law firm, Get Carter legal services or businesses whose goal it is to get the viewer on that assuredly deserved Social Security Disability? Commercials such as these make up approximately 50% of all ads in between television shows.
Our assumed viewer has a raft of physical maladies including, being overweight, problems with menstruation, age spots, headaches and toenail fungus. While her man is not at home, he is not spared her concern as I have inferred from all the commercials for medications dealing with prostrate trouble and erectile dysfunction; or perhaps these are aimed at the few, decidedly elderly, male viewers of this dribble. We are a sorry lot.
If our viewer is unable to get that coveted disability certification, there are a number of schools promising a shortened easy path to fabulous careers and good money; careers in fields such as nursing, accounting and veterinary science. How come none of these schools help you get jobs in the legal or pharmaceutical fields, as clearly there is big money there as well?
The commercials are not the only insights we have into our viewing audience. The shows themselves give us a number of clues. Clearly, our average viewer has a good deal of anxiety. She is concerned about how to raise her children, how to keep romance kindled in her relationships ( see previous comment about medications that treat erectile dysfunction ) and about paying the bills. Go figure?! She also must have a good deal of time on her hands during the day, otherwise why would “In the Loop” suggest that you participate in the show live via e-mail and why would there be hours and hours of programming dedicated to Soap Operas ( which by the way has little to do with either soap or opera )?
I would comment on shows like Gerry Springer or Oprah, but I think they speak for themselves. For me, I am going to work tomorrow, sick or not. I just can’t stand one more day of watching daytime television. Now, excuse me, I must run, the Guiding Light is coming on.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Day Light Savings Time? Bah Humbug!
This Sunday, we spring ahead. Yeah! I look forward to more PM daylight, but others are less happy, here is an excerpt I came across that struck a chord with me:
I don't really care how time is reckoned so long as there is some agreement about it, but I object to being told that I am saving daylight when my reason tells me that I am doing nothing of the kind. I even object to the implication that I am wasting something valuable if I stay in bed after the sun has risen. As an admirer of moonlight I resent the bossy insistence of those who want to reduce my time for enjoying it. At the back of the Daylight Saving scheme I detect the bony, blue-fingered hand of Puritanism, eager to push people into bed earlier, and get them up earlier, to make them healthy, wealthy and wise in spite of themselves."
I don't really care how time is reckoned so long as there is some agreement about it, but I object to being told that I am saving daylight when my reason tells me that I am doing nothing of the kind. I even object to the implication that I am wasting something valuable if I stay in bed after the sun has risen. As an admirer of moonlight I resent the bossy insistence of those who want to reduce my time for enjoying it. At the back of the Daylight Saving scheme I detect the bony, blue-fingered hand of Puritanism, eager to push people into bed earlier, and get them up earlier, to make them healthy, wealthy and wise in spite of themselves."
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Its Time for Torte Reform
A fundamental problem in this country, I would put it up there with energy independence, is that of torte reform. What is torte reform? Here is the abbreviated version: no one in this country is responsible for their own behavior. If a kid gets up on some building’s roof, falls through a skylight and is hurt ( he should be killed, its cheaper ) is he responsible because he wasn’t supposed to be there? No, the building owner and their insurance company is. A gang member kills someone with a gun, the gun manufacturer is sued. An IDIOT spills hot coffee in her lap and McDonalds is somehow responsible. The best of all is when Ford was sued because a drunk driver killed someone driving a Ford. How was Ford responsible?
Where is the harm in this? Doctors don’t want to treat sick people. Without the Doc you might die, but of you live, and he screwed up something ( don’t we all make mistakes ), he has to PAY! People don’t want strangers visiting their homes for fear that they will slip and fall and then sue. What does this teach the children? This country used to be built in the notion of personal responsibility, now it’s always someone else’s fault. There is always some excuse. Now we have to have insurance for everything and lots of it. I know torte reform is not a sexy concept. Most people’s eyes glaze over when you begin to discuss it. However, if you asked the man on the street about the examples above, I am sure that to a person they would agree that the individual in question is at fault. Its just common sense.
Let me tell you, people who do not take personal responsibility drive me crazy! It shows a real character flaw. Suck it up, own up to your mistakes and suffer the consequences of your own decisions. Do not blame others. That’s cowardly.
So, if you do not like my blog, it’s my fault, not Blogger. I am personally responsible for all editorial comment and if you don’t like it don’t read it. It’s a free country. I am free to have my say, you are free to not read it. ( Its probably not a big deal because no one is reading this anyway ). Just keep this in mind when you fill out your O on election day, who is for torte reform?
Where is the harm in this? Doctors don’t want to treat sick people. Without the Doc you might die, but of you live, and he screwed up something ( don’t we all make mistakes ), he has to PAY! People don’t want strangers visiting their homes for fear that they will slip and fall and then sue. What does this teach the children? This country used to be built in the notion of personal responsibility, now it’s always someone else’s fault. There is always some excuse. Now we have to have insurance for everything and lots of it. I know torte reform is not a sexy concept. Most people’s eyes glaze over when you begin to discuss it. However, if you asked the man on the street about the examples above, I am sure that to a person they would agree that the individual in question is at fault. Its just common sense.
Let me tell you, people who do not take personal responsibility drive me crazy! It shows a real character flaw. Suck it up, own up to your mistakes and suffer the consequences of your own decisions. Do not blame others. That’s cowardly.
So, if you do not like my blog, it’s my fault, not Blogger. I am personally responsible for all editorial comment and if you don’t like it don’t read it. It’s a free country. I am free to have my say, you are free to not read it. ( Its probably not a big deal because no one is reading this anyway ). Just keep this in mind when you fill out your O on election day, who is for torte reform?
Monday, March 3, 2008
Rediscovering the Connecticut Wilderness
Perhaps you have seen, from time to time, a sign at the side of the road—a blue oval with white letters bearing strange Indian names, announcing a brown path that fades into the woods. Or perhaps you have hiked part of the "blue trail" and wondered how far it goes into the gray woods and to where. My friends and I, avid hikers, wondered the same, when our eyes fell upon these signs after returning from lofty backpacking trips in Colorado and Arizona. Seeking local adventure, we shunned the obligatory hiking of the Appalachian Trail that represents the zenith of hiking in Connecticut, choosing instead to explore the wilderness backcountry of our state.
When one thinks about hiking, one does not tend to think about Connecticut. Visions of Rocky Mountain vistas and Grand Canyon depths leap to the mind instead. In addition to discovering the trail less traveled, our purpose in this suburban hiking adventure was to bring attention to the remaining wild areas of Connecticut, a state on the frontlines in the fight against urban sprawl. Under pressure from development, a large portion of Connecticut’s history is being trodden down along with the wilderness and the trails that run through it. However, some of that New England charm is still there for those who look hard enough and who can put it all together from the pieces of the Humpty Dumpty that it is becoming. The Mattatuck Trail is such an example.
The Mattatuck Trail winds like a snake for approximately 38 miles through central Connecticut, connecting the town of Wolcott to Litchfield. Part of the "Blue Blaze" network of hiking trails, the Mattatuck was first officially recognized in 1929 when a group of individuals founded the Connecticut Forest and Parks Association (CFPA). Today this complex of trails, covering more than 700 miles in total, is maintained by the all-volunteer CFPA. This organization also publishes a guide called the Connecticut Walk Book that describes the major trails in Connecticut, complete with maps. This is an invaluable tool for mapping out hikes and we referenced it a great deal.
How the trail may have originally come about is obscured in the mystery of history. Perhaps these were wooded Indian paths or the highways of the day, but today the Mattatuck Trail and the other Blue Blaze trails skirt through and across the suburban and urban landscape. Most of the trails regularly cross private property, as they weave a complex pattern that stitches Connecticut’s remaining wild areas together.
Mike rests near Indian Jack Cave in Plymouth.
The trails have been changed and re-routed many times over the decades, as development and suburban sprawl have squeezed out the natural areas with which Connecticut was once rich. While under attack, these trails are not gone forever, however, as dedicated legions of people such as the CFPA safeguard the last bastions of Connecticut wilderness. Even today, over 60% of Connecticut is still forested. From the many rocky slab ridges, this fact is driven home as the eye wanders over the sea of green that is our home.
We hiked from south to north on a sunny Friday morning, beginning along the Mad River in Wolcott. The trail begins humbly enough, alongside a local basketball court. The first stretch, however, is quite scenic, passing many small waterfalls that would make a nice repose for a family on a lazy summer afternoon.
It does not take long before the trail reveals a part of its true nature, as it gets lost in a swampy wasteland area. Most people would turn back here, I presume. We were daunted as we lost the trail for the first time (but not the last), but persevered until we picked it up again. Once through this, the trail skirts homes and cuts across roads, making its way to Plymouth. Soon we encountered one of the hike’s highlights, Indian Jack Cave. More a hollow in a rock face, legend has it that a Native American lived in this cave at around the turn of the 20th century. Today it bears the pictographs of teenagers leaving their own marks in spray paint. When I first visited here years ago, it seemed so remote, but today it is easy to make out the coloration of homes through the trees.
The trail led us out of the woods to a spot where it ran along the road, and moving quickly past people’s driveways, we wondered to each other what others might be thinking of us as they drove past. Then the trail cut back into the woods and down along Buttermilk Falls, one of Connecticut’s best, but little known, natural features. It was a joy to behold on a warm spring day as we skipped from rock to rock, our packs seemingly lightened by the dappled sun and the heady scent of spring wildflowers. We dropped our loads and enjoyed it while it lasted.
From there things got tough. More roads, then back into the woods. Uphill through a tunnel of laurel, I wished they were in bloom. The trail quickly became confused and so did we, as we stood at the intersection of several brown woods roads with no signs of any kind. When hiking in Connecticut it is a regular event to come upon these old unpaved fire roads in the woods. We picked one, using only intuition, and moved on. Again and again we faced this dilemma. One time we saw a state DEP car in the middle of the woods. No one was around. How did it get here? Why was it there? There was no one to ask.
Finally, we emerged from the forest into a sand pit area on the border of Army Corps of Engineers property. It looked like a place that would be left over after a nuclear war. Rusty old drums and bits of twisted metal lined the dirt road. Here great holes have been torn in the earth for some reason unknown to us. There was a strange juxtaposition between the sight before us and the smell of honeysuckle on the breeze.
We came out of the woods, and went back into the woods. Then we encountered the first real uphill section, and the going slowed down. Again we lost the trail as it meandered into a swamp, and we cared not to. We went up, and then down. Another road, and then another. We walked for about a mile on the street—hard on our feet. A man in his yard asked if we were looking for snow, obviously a remark aimed at us because of our trekking poles—walking sticks that look like ski poles. We didn’t need them on the road, but they have become a habit from past treks. We were sure we looked a sight and we laughed at ourselves.
Finally, back into the woods, but alas, up a steep hill. We passed the remains of an old foundation and stopped to look in silent reverie. Huffing and puffing, we crested the hill. The trail skirted the crown, but we went straight up, bushwhacking, eager to see the view. We reached a woody knoll under lofty hardwoods. New spring grass emerged at our feet and erupted in a riot of red columbine—thousands of them. This was more wild columbine than I had ever seen, and I have hiked a lot in Connecticut. This was Mt. Tobe on the Thomaston line. I renamed it Columbine Hill—they must be happy there.
Then, there it was: our view, and a grand one at that! We stood atop a rock ledge looking south over Thomaston, Watertown and Waterbury. A sea of green broken by a ribbon of black highway, Route 8, lay before us. We rested for a while, but realized we had wandered off the trail. Where was it? We turned around and there was a blaze on a tree. We were on the trail! We had hiked 12 miles in about 7 hours. We had walked to the end of Friday.
A hawk admired me as I lay on a rock; perhaps he thought he had found a banquet. We rested our soles and our souls.
Scott at the lookout above Black Rock State Park.
The next day we moved on, eager to see more. We traveled down now, past things that the trail description said were there, but we didn’t see. Past something called "Balancing Rock." There was supposed to be a trail register there, but we didn’t see the rock, or the register. Down, down—the trail, while still marked, disappeared. We followed the blazes and blazed our own trail. The smell of the wastewater treatment plant hit us at the same time as the sound of the traffic.
We popped out onto a main road in Thomaston. It was Saturday morning and the street was filled with traffic whizzing by at 50 mph. We picked up our pace to a humble 2 mph. We passed great scars in the earth and factories with names that meant nothing, bearing banners proclaiming "ISO 9001 Certified." The trail took a right, heading up a steep road and then back into the woods. We knew that it skips up over a knob and then cuts back down, emerging on this same road a few hundred yards ahead. We had no inclination to take this detour, so we stayed on the road.
We crossed the Naugatuck River and stopped to take a picture. Looking out, it could have been any river in any beautiful place—until we looked down and saw the refuse lining the riverbank and bottom. A child’s bicycle lay at the bottom of the river. A trout swam in its shadow.
Mike stands on the trail under Route 8 in Thomaston.
We stopped in Thomaston to re-supply on food and water. After this point the trail got crazy, taking a sharp left, curving on the road past more factories and industry, then heading back into the woods again. One blaze only, then none. A few yards down the road the blazes began again, but now the trail itself was gone, thick and choked with weeds. We consulted the trail guide for the 100th time. We had to cross the river, so here seemed like as good a place as any. We found a shallow spot and got only a little wet—no big deal since it was a warm spring day. Going left we walked about a quarter of a mile before my directional alarm went off. Something was wrong. We were going the wrong way. We turned around.
The trail went under the highway, and we entered the Mattatuck State Forest. It’s a giddy feeling to stand under the highway, knowing that tons of metal and steel are zooming over your head. The trail began to climb. It meandered, twisting and turning back upon itself. We should go that way, but it wants to go this way. It takes six miles to travel what is, in reality, only two.
Again the blazes disappeared; the trees are unmarked here. We were left with little else but choices in the woods. We were eager to see Leatherman’s Cave. The Leatherman is a local legend, part truth and part folklore. The story goes that the Leatherman was an immigrant from France, sometime in the 1800s. He left his native country because of a jilted love and came to the United States to live the life of a hermit. Dressed head to toe in leather, he walked a circuitous path through Connecticut and New York, stopping at the same places at the same time each year to earn his keep, cobbling leather. The Mattatuck trail is part of the Leatherman’s old route. Perhaps this is why the trail is so serpentine.
We missed the trail entirely, but did manage to find a family that was also walking in circles in the woods. They, too, were looking for the cave. They went one way, we went another. These were the first people we had encountered hiking the trail.
We picked the route that evidently goes up and over the cave, and it is a steep one at that. We stopped to huff and puff at the top, where we were provided with a more than 180-degree view of the rolling Connecticut countryside. From up there the only signs of civilization we saw were a cell phone tower and the highway heading off into the distance. It was easy to ignore those things and imagine the way Connecticut was, probably as little as 100 years ago.
We traveled down, across Route 6, and into Black Rock State Park. This was the part of the trip we had not been looking forward to, knowing that it is quite steep. At first it was a beautiful walk in the woods, under shady pines. But then the climb began. Connecticut may not be full of tall mountains, but it still makes for some challenging hiking. We rested at the side of the trail to get water from a small waterfall. (Kids, don’t try this at home—we used an especially designed filter for this purpose.) Finally we reached the rock, elevation about 800 feet. There was a wide vista, and we could clearly see the route we had taken. Down below, the park stretched out before our feet. We saw campers and people playing baseball; roads and grocery stores dotted the distance.
From this point it was three miles to our next landmark, Route 109, which makes its way north past the reservoirs that supply Waterbury. The trail winds down through prehistoric stands of trees. It appears very much the way you imagine it would have looked millions of years ago. Except for the sound. We can hear the sound of Route 109 getting closer and then farther away. I pretend that it is a dinosaur. I can imagine it as a T-Rex stalking through these very woods.
Mike stood near his tent before we began our third day of hiking.
The section of the Mattatuck Trail between Black Rock State Park and Route 109 was the most beautiful stretch of the hike, crossing many small streams and old stone walls. We wondered how long they have been there, and marveled at the work that went into them.
It did not seem like three miles. Despite its beauty, we were quite tired from two full days of hiking. It was getting late on Saturday afternoon and we still had many miles to go. It was cool under the pine canopy and the prehistoric mosquitoes were out in full force. Our bodies were like a traveling buffet for them, and soon we were itching all over. We emerged from the woods onto a road. The warm sun on the hot tar was inviting, so we used this opportunity to shed our shoes and soak it up. We had no fear of traffic, because this road is not a road; it is the back entrance to yet another wastewater recovery plant.
We couldn’t dally long, or we would get nowhere. Soon we were back to logging the miles. After an interminable period, we realized we were closing in on Route 109—and then, there it was! We bounded up a small slope and stood staring at the speeding traffic. We waited for a lull. When it came, we ran across the road, no easy feat with a 30-pound pack on your back.
This engraved rock pays tribute to Alain White and his sister May, whose vision and generosity led to the formation of the White Memorial Foundation.
Once across the road, we entered the city of Waterbury watershed property, as many signs reminded us. We walked up a dirt road for less than a mile to where the road takes a left and, after cutting across a small stream, angles to the west. Soon we were on a long dirt mound about 5 feet wide and about 30 feet high—our trail description calls this the "goat path." It seemed like an odd geological formation, and we wondered how it was created. It might have been the rail bed for a small railway that was known to exist in the area years ago. By this time it was late in the day, so any relief we got from the bugs was short-lived. We moved faster to try to make it harder for them to catch us.
We were approaching the boundary for the White Memorial Conservation Center—or "White’s Woods," as it is known locally. Several mountain bikers zoomed past, and we crossed two dirt roads. Finally we entered the Whites Woods property. Whites Woods meant to us that we were in Litchfield, our backyard. We had logged over 24 miles in two days. We stopped for the night.
Whites Woods is an interesting place. It was established in 1964 on property originally owned by Alain White and his sister, May. Their vision and generosity led to the formation of the White Memorial Foundation. As a nonprofit organization, the Center exists for the purpose of education, conservation, research and recreation. Today the endowment the Whites funded supports almost 4,000 acres of diverse environmental niches. We have spent many happy hours at all times of the year exploring Whites Woods. It is renown for its trails that are used for things such as off-road biking and cross-country skiing. Whites Woods and its attendant trails wind and twist throughout the community of Litchfield.
On Sunday we were on the trail again. The Mattatuck trail takes its time as it wanders through Whites Woods. In fact, because we are so familiar with the area, we decided to take a shortcut. The trails are broad, flat and marked quite well, but we got lost for a brief period anyway. It was a cool and rainy day, and so despite the ease of hiking, we become quite cold and tired early.
Whites Woods is really the end of the Mattatuck Trail. From Whites Woods there is a two-mile break before it resumes again for a two-mile stretch over Prospect Mountain on the Bantam/ Litchfield border. The trail is not marked at all in this area. After Prospect Mountain there is yet another larger break of about eight miles before the trail resumes and finally reaches its official terminus at Mohawk Mountain.
We had hiked 34 miles in three days. We were tired and wet. It was the end of the trail for us. We called it a day just a few miles from our homes. We had hiked the major section of the contiguous trail, and been mostly faithful to its vacillations. It was with a bittersweet feeling that we turned our back to the trail, unfinished, and headed for home.
But the trail is never really done. We will return to it one day. There are also other trails to be hiked, such as the Mattabassett and the Tunxis. The threats to our wilderness areas have not gone away. The trails must be maintained. We will hike the trails and enjoy them when we can. This was not the end, but a break between sections, like crossing a road. Adventure is a state of mind, and not a place to be visited. The trail starts right outside your front door. Who knows where it might end?
If you should follow that trail into the woods to see where it may lead, may you find what you seek; take notice of the beauty that we have right here in our own backyard. But please be kind and respect our natural resources. Believe it or not, the wilderness is fragile. One step can crush a flower into non-existence. Follow the principles of "leave no trace"—take out everything you bring into the woods, and leave it a better place than you found it! In this way we can ensure that there will always be trails to follow and wilderness in Connecticut to rediscover.
When one thinks about hiking, one does not tend to think about Connecticut. Visions of Rocky Mountain vistas and Grand Canyon depths leap to the mind instead. In addition to discovering the trail less traveled, our purpose in this suburban hiking adventure was to bring attention to the remaining wild areas of Connecticut, a state on the frontlines in the fight against urban sprawl. Under pressure from development, a large portion of Connecticut’s history is being trodden down along with the wilderness and the trails that run through it. However, some of that New England charm is still there for those who look hard enough and who can put it all together from the pieces of the Humpty Dumpty that it is becoming. The Mattatuck Trail is such an example.
The Mattatuck Trail winds like a snake for approximately 38 miles through central Connecticut, connecting the town of Wolcott to Litchfield. Part of the "Blue Blaze" network of hiking trails, the Mattatuck was first officially recognized in 1929 when a group of individuals founded the Connecticut Forest and Parks Association (CFPA). Today this complex of trails, covering more than 700 miles in total, is maintained by the all-volunteer CFPA. This organization also publishes a guide called the Connecticut Walk Book that describes the major trails in Connecticut, complete with maps. This is an invaluable tool for mapping out hikes and we referenced it a great deal.
How the trail may have originally come about is obscured in the mystery of history. Perhaps these were wooded Indian paths or the highways of the day, but today the Mattatuck Trail and the other Blue Blaze trails skirt through and across the suburban and urban landscape. Most of the trails regularly cross private property, as they weave a complex pattern that stitches Connecticut’s remaining wild areas together.
Mike rests near Indian Jack Cave in Plymouth.
The trails have been changed and re-routed many times over the decades, as development and suburban sprawl have squeezed out the natural areas with which Connecticut was once rich. While under attack, these trails are not gone forever, however, as dedicated legions of people such as the CFPA safeguard the last bastions of Connecticut wilderness. Even today, over 60% of Connecticut is still forested. From the many rocky slab ridges, this fact is driven home as the eye wanders over the sea of green that is our home.
We hiked from south to north on a sunny Friday morning, beginning along the Mad River in Wolcott. The trail begins humbly enough, alongside a local basketball court. The first stretch, however, is quite scenic, passing many small waterfalls that would make a nice repose for a family on a lazy summer afternoon.
It does not take long before the trail reveals a part of its true nature, as it gets lost in a swampy wasteland area. Most people would turn back here, I presume. We were daunted as we lost the trail for the first time (but not the last), but persevered until we picked it up again. Once through this, the trail skirts homes and cuts across roads, making its way to Plymouth. Soon we encountered one of the hike’s highlights, Indian Jack Cave. More a hollow in a rock face, legend has it that a Native American lived in this cave at around the turn of the 20th century. Today it bears the pictographs of teenagers leaving their own marks in spray paint. When I first visited here years ago, it seemed so remote, but today it is easy to make out the coloration of homes through the trees.
The trail led us out of the woods to a spot where it ran along the road, and moving quickly past people’s driveways, we wondered to each other what others might be thinking of us as they drove past. Then the trail cut back into the woods and down along Buttermilk Falls, one of Connecticut’s best, but little known, natural features. It was a joy to behold on a warm spring day as we skipped from rock to rock, our packs seemingly lightened by the dappled sun and the heady scent of spring wildflowers. We dropped our loads and enjoyed it while it lasted.
From there things got tough. More roads, then back into the woods. Uphill through a tunnel of laurel, I wished they were in bloom. The trail quickly became confused and so did we, as we stood at the intersection of several brown woods roads with no signs of any kind. When hiking in Connecticut it is a regular event to come upon these old unpaved fire roads in the woods. We picked one, using only intuition, and moved on. Again and again we faced this dilemma. One time we saw a state DEP car in the middle of the woods. No one was around. How did it get here? Why was it there? There was no one to ask.
Finally, we emerged from the forest into a sand pit area on the border of Army Corps of Engineers property. It looked like a place that would be left over after a nuclear war. Rusty old drums and bits of twisted metal lined the dirt road. Here great holes have been torn in the earth for some reason unknown to us. There was a strange juxtaposition between the sight before us and the smell of honeysuckle on the breeze.
We came out of the woods, and went back into the woods. Then we encountered the first real uphill section, and the going slowed down. Again we lost the trail as it meandered into a swamp, and we cared not to. We went up, and then down. Another road, and then another. We walked for about a mile on the street—hard on our feet. A man in his yard asked if we were looking for snow, obviously a remark aimed at us because of our trekking poles—walking sticks that look like ski poles. We didn’t need them on the road, but they have become a habit from past treks. We were sure we looked a sight and we laughed at ourselves.
Finally, back into the woods, but alas, up a steep hill. We passed the remains of an old foundation and stopped to look in silent reverie. Huffing and puffing, we crested the hill. The trail skirted the crown, but we went straight up, bushwhacking, eager to see the view. We reached a woody knoll under lofty hardwoods. New spring grass emerged at our feet and erupted in a riot of red columbine—thousands of them. This was more wild columbine than I had ever seen, and I have hiked a lot in Connecticut. This was Mt. Tobe on the Thomaston line. I renamed it Columbine Hill—they must be happy there.
Then, there it was: our view, and a grand one at that! We stood atop a rock ledge looking south over Thomaston, Watertown and Waterbury. A sea of green broken by a ribbon of black highway, Route 8, lay before us. We rested for a while, but realized we had wandered off the trail. Where was it? We turned around and there was a blaze on a tree. We were on the trail! We had hiked 12 miles in about 7 hours. We had walked to the end of Friday.
A hawk admired me as I lay on a rock; perhaps he thought he had found a banquet. We rested our soles and our souls.
Scott at the lookout above Black Rock State Park.
The next day we moved on, eager to see more. We traveled down now, past things that the trail description said were there, but we didn’t see. Past something called "Balancing Rock." There was supposed to be a trail register there, but we didn’t see the rock, or the register. Down, down—the trail, while still marked, disappeared. We followed the blazes and blazed our own trail. The smell of the wastewater treatment plant hit us at the same time as the sound of the traffic.
We popped out onto a main road in Thomaston. It was Saturday morning and the street was filled with traffic whizzing by at 50 mph. We picked up our pace to a humble 2 mph. We passed great scars in the earth and factories with names that meant nothing, bearing banners proclaiming "ISO 9001 Certified." The trail took a right, heading up a steep road and then back into the woods. We knew that it skips up over a knob and then cuts back down, emerging on this same road a few hundred yards ahead. We had no inclination to take this detour, so we stayed on the road.
We crossed the Naugatuck River and stopped to take a picture. Looking out, it could have been any river in any beautiful place—until we looked down and saw the refuse lining the riverbank and bottom. A child’s bicycle lay at the bottom of the river. A trout swam in its shadow.
Mike stands on the trail under Route 8 in Thomaston.
We stopped in Thomaston to re-supply on food and water. After this point the trail got crazy, taking a sharp left, curving on the road past more factories and industry, then heading back into the woods again. One blaze only, then none. A few yards down the road the blazes began again, but now the trail itself was gone, thick and choked with weeds. We consulted the trail guide for the 100th time. We had to cross the river, so here seemed like as good a place as any. We found a shallow spot and got only a little wet—no big deal since it was a warm spring day. Going left we walked about a quarter of a mile before my directional alarm went off. Something was wrong. We were going the wrong way. We turned around.
The trail went under the highway, and we entered the Mattatuck State Forest. It’s a giddy feeling to stand under the highway, knowing that tons of metal and steel are zooming over your head. The trail began to climb. It meandered, twisting and turning back upon itself. We should go that way, but it wants to go this way. It takes six miles to travel what is, in reality, only two.
Again the blazes disappeared; the trees are unmarked here. We were left with little else but choices in the woods. We were eager to see Leatherman’s Cave. The Leatherman is a local legend, part truth and part folklore. The story goes that the Leatherman was an immigrant from France, sometime in the 1800s. He left his native country because of a jilted love and came to the United States to live the life of a hermit. Dressed head to toe in leather, he walked a circuitous path through Connecticut and New York, stopping at the same places at the same time each year to earn his keep, cobbling leather. The Mattatuck trail is part of the Leatherman’s old route. Perhaps this is why the trail is so serpentine.
We missed the trail entirely, but did manage to find a family that was also walking in circles in the woods. They, too, were looking for the cave. They went one way, we went another. These were the first people we had encountered hiking the trail.
We picked the route that evidently goes up and over the cave, and it is a steep one at that. We stopped to huff and puff at the top, where we were provided with a more than 180-degree view of the rolling Connecticut countryside. From up there the only signs of civilization we saw were a cell phone tower and the highway heading off into the distance. It was easy to ignore those things and imagine the way Connecticut was, probably as little as 100 years ago.
We traveled down, across Route 6, and into Black Rock State Park. This was the part of the trip we had not been looking forward to, knowing that it is quite steep. At first it was a beautiful walk in the woods, under shady pines. But then the climb began. Connecticut may not be full of tall mountains, but it still makes for some challenging hiking. We rested at the side of the trail to get water from a small waterfall. (Kids, don’t try this at home—we used an especially designed filter for this purpose.) Finally we reached the rock, elevation about 800 feet. There was a wide vista, and we could clearly see the route we had taken. Down below, the park stretched out before our feet. We saw campers and people playing baseball; roads and grocery stores dotted the distance.
From this point it was three miles to our next landmark, Route 109, which makes its way north past the reservoirs that supply Waterbury. The trail winds down through prehistoric stands of trees. It appears very much the way you imagine it would have looked millions of years ago. Except for the sound. We can hear the sound of Route 109 getting closer and then farther away. I pretend that it is a dinosaur. I can imagine it as a T-Rex stalking through these very woods.
Mike stood near his tent before we began our third day of hiking.
The section of the Mattatuck Trail between Black Rock State Park and Route 109 was the most beautiful stretch of the hike, crossing many small streams and old stone walls. We wondered how long they have been there, and marveled at the work that went into them.
It did not seem like three miles. Despite its beauty, we were quite tired from two full days of hiking. It was getting late on Saturday afternoon and we still had many miles to go. It was cool under the pine canopy and the prehistoric mosquitoes were out in full force. Our bodies were like a traveling buffet for them, and soon we were itching all over. We emerged from the woods onto a road. The warm sun on the hot tar was inviting, so we used this opportunity to shed our shoes and soak it up. We had no fear of traffic, because this road is not a road; it is the back entrance to yet another wastewater recovery plant.
We couldn’t dally long, or we would get nowhere. Soon we were back to logging the miles. After an interminable period, we realized we were closing in on Route 109—and then, there it was! We bounded up a small slope and stood staring at the speeding traffic. We waited for a lull. When it came, we ran across the road, no easy feat with a 30-pound pack on your back.
This engraved rock pays tribute to Alain White and his sister May, whose vision and generosity led to the formation of the White Memorial Foundation.
Once across the road, we entered the city of Waterbury watershed property, as many signs reminded us. We walked up a dirt road for less than a mile to where the road takes a left and, after cutting across a small stream, angles to the west. Soon we were on a long dirt mound about 5 feet wide and about 30 feet high—our trail description calls this the "goat path." It seemed like an odd geological formation, and we wondered how it was created. It might have been the rail bed for a small railway that was known to exist in the area years ago. By this time it was late in the day, so any relief we got from the bugs was short-lived. We moved faster to try to make it harder for them to catch us.
We were approaching the boundary for the White Memorial Conservation Center—or "White’s Woods," as it is known locally. Several mountain bikers zoomed past, and we crossed two dirt roads. Finally we entered the Whites Woods property. Whites Woods meant to us that we were in Litchfield, our backyard. We had logged over 24 miles in two days. We stopped for the night.
Whites Woods is an interesting place. It was established in 1964 on property originally owned by Alain White and his sister, May. Their vision and generosity led to the formation of the White Memorial Foundation. As a nonprofit organization, the Center exists for the purpose of education, conservation, research and recreation. Today the endowment the Whites funded supports almost 4,000 acres of diverse environmental niches. We have spent many happy hours at all times of the year exploring Whites Woods. It is renown for its trails that are used for things such as off-road biking and cross-country skiing. Whites Woods and its attendant trails wind and twist throughout the community of Litchfield.
On Sunday we were on the trail again. The Mattatuck trail takes its time as it wanders through Whites Woods. In fact, because we are so familiar with the area, we decided to take a shortcut. The trails are broad, flat and marked quite well, but we got lost for a brief period anyway. It was a cool and rainy day, and so despite the ease of hiking, we become quite cold and tired early.
Whites Woods is really the end of the Mattatuck Trail. From Whites Woods there is a two-mile break before it resumes again for a two-mile stretch over Prospect Mountain on the Bantam/ Litchfield border. The trail is not marked at all in this area. After Prospect Mountain there is yet another larger break of about eight miles before the trail resumes and finally reaches its official terminus at Mohawk Mountain.
We had hiked 34 miles in three days. We were tired and wet. It was the end of the trail for us. We called it a day just a few miles from our homes. We had hiked the major section of the contiguous trail, and been mostly faithful to its vacillations. It was with a bittersweet feeling that we turned our back to the trail, unfinished, and headed for home.
But the trail is never really done. We will return to it one day. There are also other trails to be hiked, such as the Mattabassett and the Tunxis. The threats to our wilderness areas have not gone away. The trails must be maintained. We will hike the trails and enjoy them when we can. This was not the end, but a break between sections, like crossing a road. Adventure is a state of mind, and not a place to be visited. The trail starts right outside your front door. Who knows where it might end?
If you should follow that trail into the woods to see where it may lead, may you find what you seek; take notice of the beauty that we have right here in our own backyard. But please be kind and respect our natural resources. Believe it or not, the wilderness is fragile. One step can crush a flower into non-existence. Follow the principles of "leave no trace"—take out everything you bring into the woods, and leave it a better place than you found it! In this way we can ensure that there will always be trails to follow and wilderness in Connecticut to rediscover.
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