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.