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Going Wild in Massachusetts
One woman, four adventures, memories for a lifetime
Submitted by Mike Okenquist
Submitted by Adoniram Sides
Submitted by Bob Van Malderghem
IT WAS AFTER Left Turn Rapid that we lost Dorothy off the front of our raft. We had gotten lodged atop a rock, and as we were being unstuck by a freight train of white water, she tumbled headfirst into the froth. For a moment, the rest of us watched dumbstruck. Then our guide, Gary, yelled, "All ahead!" and we paddled hard, catching Dorothy downriver 30 seconds later. Her friend Andrea did just as we'd been taught during the short lesson on shore: grabbed Dorothy by her life vest and heaved her backward into the boat. It worked. The two women landed in a soggy, sputtering pile on the deck. They started laughing and so did the rest of us. "The water is FREEZING!" Dorothy gasped.
We were rafting down the Dryway, a section of the Deerfield River that was, as its name suggests, virtually Saharan until 1991, when sport boaters convinced the power company to schedule water releases from the dam at Monroe Bridge 32 times a year. Now it's the gnarliest section on the Deerfield, one of the state's coldest and clearest rivers. With its headwaters in Vermont, the Deerfield cuts a chilly swath through mountains in the northwestern part of the state, home to some of its least populated towns, including Monroe Bridge, population 110, where we shoved off.
I had signed up for Zoar Outdoor's advanced white-water rafting trip on the Dryway thinking it would pale in comparison with the Kennebec River in Maine, the granddaddy of New England rafting, which I had run numerous times. I was wrong. The Class III and IV rapids on the Deerfield turn grown men into whimpering sissies. It's thrilling and, on a muggy July day -- the kind when you work up a sweat by standing still -- it's the perfect cure: extreme hydration.
After Dorothy's spill, we heeded Gary's paddling commands more closely as we bounced through gaping snarls like Big Boulder and Dunbar Brook, at times completely disappearing inside caverns of water and rock, whooping with equal parts dread and delight. Just beyond Dragon's Tooth, a fang of rock with rips of white water flossing both sides, we heard the shout "Swimmer!" and caught sight of another lost rafter. Now a seasoned pro, Andrea yanked her out of the spin cycle. Celeste, our involuntary visitor, rode Labyrinth Rapid with us before rejoining her crew.
After a few hours on the river, we were spent and glad to reach our takeout just past Bear Rapid, where rafters are invited to take a planned swim through white water, safely. Back at the Zoar compound, we ate a delicious barbecue while watching a slide show that caught everyone's antics -- both in and out of the rafts -- on film.
Rock Jock
I am hanging off a crag at Crow Hill in Leominster State Forest trying to convince myself to walk over a cliff backward. The six-story drop behind me is presenting a challenge. First fact: I know I'm in good hands. I'm with Joe Lentini, director of the Eastern Mountain Sports Climbing School, who has been gracefully scaling rocks for more than 30 years. Second fact: I am on a triple-safe belay line with a special locking device. I can't possibly slip and hurtle to my demise. Third fact: I feel fear. Have I lost my nerve in my decade-long climbing hiatus?
While I try to calm myself, Joe's voice, gentle but firm, coaxes me from above: "Yah, that's the hard part, getting over that lip, but once you do you'll just rappel down like nothing. It's fun," he says.
So I hold my breath and go. Over the lip. And miraculously I do not fall, splat, on the rocks below. It's a huge adrenaline rush. Now I'm face to face with a gorgeous hunk of rock, specifically metamorphic gneiss, a mosaic with stripes of feldspar and flecks of mica. My rock shoes skip down the face of it while I gradually feed out line, feeling the rope's slight burn in my right hand. As I bounce down the face, it's like being on the mother of all rope swings.
For Joe, Crow Hill is a trip down memory lane. As a teen growing up in Boston, he would ride the T with his buddies and come out here to climb. Several decades later he has climbed all over the world and -- he pinches himself every day to make sure it's still true -- makes his living doing it.
A climbing haunt since the 1920s, Crow Hill, overlooking Crow Hill Pond, is known for its stiff face routes and burly overhanging cracks. Native Americans used these ledges for shelter and for sending smoke signals to neighboring tribes. There are some 50 routes in all, from easy (5.5) to expert (5.12+), with names like Tarzan and Cro-Magnon. After staring down your own demons on the ledges, take your primal self across the street for a cool dip in Crow Hill Pond. It eases the transition back to the civilized world.
Two Wheels, One Tower, Five States
"Mountain biking." To some people, including most guidebook writers, it means anything that's not a paved two-lane road: gravel and dirt roads, even paved bike paths. To avid bikers, it means, ideally, single-track trails with steep climbs and downhills, exposed rocks and roots, fallen trees to jump over, and narrow bridges to cross -- all serving to make you feel like you're 12 years old again. To most people, mountain biking means something in between: unpaved trails that lead to views and offer modest challenges. My husband and I found routes that met all of these definitions at DAR State Forest in Goshen.
Start out on the park's Long Trail. It skirts Upper Highland Lake along a pine-needle single-track with lots of exposed tree roots and glimpses of the water through the pine trees and mountain laurel. At the lake's northern end, the trail climbs through hardwood forests latticed by stone walls. There are tricky sections, especially in wet weather when roots and rocks become slick, but they're short, so even if you must walk your bike, you're soon back in the saddle pedaling the lush forest. At approximately the two-mile mark, the Long Trail intersects with Moore Hill Road, which traverses the near-2,000-acre park. Cross the road, then go another half-mile to the top of Moore Hill, to the nearby fire tower and an acre of high-bush blueberries. In season, pick a few handfuls, ditch your bike, and take in the view -- the Berkshires, the Taconics, the Holyoke range, and, on clear days, peaks in New York, Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Vermont.
Though armed with the park map, we got lost on our descent. At the park gate, the ranger had told us about a fabulous trail called the Moose Run, recently cut and maintained by the New England Mountain Bike Association (NEMBA). We missed the sharp right off the fire tower access road. Instead, we descended on a hiking/bridle trail, also sporting NEMBA improvements like wooden bridges and stone pathways through wet areas. It was a fun downhill run, with both technical and cruiser sections, but we missed another turn and overshot the trail back to our truck. We doubled back through Camp Howe, a 4-H outpost bustling with families, and easily found our way back to Upper Highland Lake. Our ride lasted two solid hours and -- despite getting lost -- left us smiling ear to ear.
We retraced the trail back to Upper Highland Lake for a post-ride dip at the sandy beach. As we cooled off, we vowed to come back in the fall. Next time, we'd find the vaunted NEMBA trail.
Misson to Marsh
Three girlfriends and I slink in and out of sea grass-tufted hummocks in whisper-quiet kayaks on Nauset Marsh. We've come to Cape Cod on a secret mission: to see as much wildlife as possible without announcing our presence like bulls in a china shop. Now we're stealthily navigating the serpentine maze of streams, threading in and out of one of the most productive salt marsh habitats in the world.
That morning, we had met up at Goose Hummock Shop in Orleans. Ideally located on Town Cove, this outfitter has been catering to Cape sportsmen since 1946. We sign up for a four-hour guided kayak tour of the marsh. Guides make or break a tour like this, and we hit the jackpot: Bryan, 22, is a Cape native with an innate curiosity about the natural world and the calm demeanor of a born teacher.
On the two-mile paddle from Town Cove to Nauset Marsh, Bryan points out the three types of gulls on the Cape: portly black-backs; herring gulls, named for their fishing prowess; and laughing gulls. We also spot several cormorants, which, Bryan explains, are often regarded by boaters in these parts as the scourge of the seabird world for their fishy cement-like excrement.
Before we reach the marsh, Bryan points out a "fenced off" area in the cove. Fishermen mark off their aquaculture grants with simple posts or buoys in the water. "We try to stay well clear of these," Bryan explains. "We don't want to stir up the sand or, at worst, bring in any foreign bacteria that might harm the baby clams."
With the sun high overhead, the salty ocean aroma shifts to earthy peat. We have reached the salt marsh. Bryan leads us through various creeks, pointing out tiny plovers, more gulls, and evidence of their feasting: picked-over shells of horseshoe crabs, moon snails, blue mussels, and clams.
When we reach the starburst, or center of the marsh, we take a break on a sandy spit that affords a sweeping view: we see SUVs on Nauset Beach to our east, the faded white clapboards of the old Coast Guard station to the north. Fort Hill inland to the west was a favorite camp of the Native Americans, the first Cape Codders. Bryan pulls out his binoculars and we take turns spying on osprey nested high in a wooden stand. A recent ban on Jet Skis and personal watercraft in the cove has created relative calm for birds that use the spartina, or sea grass, to nest and hunt. As we shove off from the spit for our return paddle, two huge blue herons swoop overhead as if we weren't even there; their wide gray wingspans blocking the sun for a heartbeat. Mission accomplished.
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