Jeffe’s Hill

Last Sunday morning Todd and I headed down through the west field to look for a set of trails described to us the night before by Marty, a neighbor and farmer who has lived in this valley for over 60 years.  We walked through our fenced in pasture and were escorted down to the corner gate by Calvin and the ewes (or as Elton John would sing, “C-C-C-Calvin and the Ewes”).

Once through the gate, we crossed Jericho Street and walked behind the gorgeously preserved colonial home (the Jeffe house) that was one of the original farm houses in the valley. We descended down their west fields heading toward a line of pines. As we got close, the cave that marked the dirt road carved through the trees was clear as could be.

Deep ruts, shallow puddles and an occasional random partially buried brick made up this muddy road that cut through a thin grove of skimpy pines.  The descent continued and the path curved gently left. The pines grew taller. The view above became crowded with trees and the air cooled. Below, a wooden bridge came into view.  Each side had hand rails and the slats for the bridge were covered by three rows of worn planking to make crossing easier. The bridge lay flat above a shallow creek.

Todd went ahead, but I stopped at the center of the bridge. The water tinkled. The rocks were slick and the boards on the bridge were slimy. The creek twisted and turned around old boulders and tree roots and descended out of sight. I finished crossing and the path stretched out flat and then bent left. A bright red one-story barn structure showed through the dark green and brown of the trees. We’d found Marty’s nephew’s sugar shack (actually a “transfer station” as Marty told us the night before). Thick black hoses suspended in the air by wiring ran high over our heads and into an opening on the side of the barn.

Half the barn was sealed. The other half had two open sides.  Up on a platform two mint condition stainless steel baths 5 feet deep and 20 feet long sat side by side and empty.  The black tubing overhead ran into a pumping machine suspended above the vats and in front of each vat, two motors sat on blocks with hand pulls of the kind I recognized from our lawn mower.

The barn was up against a steep rise and a second set of black hoses rose up with it. We could see the beginnings of the web of thin pale blue tubing that crisscrossed through the woods ready to be connected to maple trees. Next spring, once all the maples are tapped and connected to the miles of blue tubing that in turn connect to those fat black hoses, the pumping station will literally vacuum out the sap and collect the sweet liquid in these giant vats.

But for now, the vats are still and we walk on. The road stayed fairly flat, the creek ran below and to the left, the rising slope of the next ridge to our right. The remains of a stone fence ran alongside us halfway between the creek below and the road. Dark stones and vibrant apple green moss defined the fence.

A short distance from the sugar shack, the road ended at a field and turned into a vague path that descended into a small overgrown field. We turned right, away from the path, and walked along the woods and field rising with every step.

The scrappy field gave way to a clean cut open pasture that unfolded like a brown blanket over a sleeping body.  We rose up over the hump, my heart beating hard for the first time. We paused at the edge of the field and turned around. There spread out like a vintage American folklore painting was our upper bowl of fields, barns and homes. The sun’s light was pushing through the grey clouds and sharp slices of bright light bounced off aluminum roofs across the valley. Patches of forest and thin rows of border trees mixed with deep morning shadows that edged rectangle fields of browns and greens.

We pressed on and up and began to wind around the ridge to the north. The walk became a very steep climb. I paused often for air and views. Suddenly our familiar valley was far to the left and the view expanded to include Mt. Ascutney in the distance to the south and vast hills and ridges of pine and bare trees. Todd, who is frustrated he can’t figure out how to take videos with his camera, was successful this time and got a nice vid of the PANORAMA.

It all felt so expansive and I felt so high up in the hills. It was hard to stop staring. It was hard to stop scanning the view and soaking in the size, the beauty, the overwhelming “I can’t believe I am standing here” feelings.

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We ventured toward some horse fencing and saw the beginnings of the flipside of the ridge and eventually found our way back to an ATV trail Marty had told us to look for.  We were back in the woods, pine needles and leaves covered a trail that rose for a bit and then flattened. Todd held his hand up and pointed to the ground. A small Chickadee was jumping in place, pecking at something on top of a rotted log. Later Todd pointed out a woodpecker. Once I saw him, I heard him.

We walked along the crest of the ridge through a small thin pine grove and then one of birches.  Occasionally we’d see posted “no hunting” signs with the signature of the owner of the colonial we passed at the beginning of the hike. I had no idea that so much land was part of their parcel.

At one point we stepped over rusty wire fencing marking the edge of the property and began to descend.  Suddenly a father and young son in hunting gear carrying rifles and a couple of AR-15 upper receivers were hiking up toward us on the path. Barely a grunt as they passed, we continued hiking downward. For the first time, I felt nervous but grateful I was wearing a light blue wind breaker. I wasn’t so sure Todd’s red hat would read “human, don’t shoot.”

The path came out to a paved road we recognized instantly.  We were at the top of Wallace Road, which we had walked several times before we got the courage to take our walks off road! Just a few feet to the right down Wallace, and just as Marty predicted, was another path that took us back into the woods.  Like any switchback, we were now walking parallel to the crest path only lower. The web work of blue sap tubing was back. And a handwritten sign clung to a fence that was locked with a new cable and padlock. It asked snowmobilers to stay on the path or risk losing the right to use the path.

We climbed over the cable and gate and continued. This path cut into the ridge and was wider, more pines, taller trees and with a significant drop off to our left and a steep wall of trees and hill to our right.  It felt cozy. Rotting fallen trees, moss, large boulders and mounds of decaying leaf and pine piles surrounded us. The path ran gently downward. Soon in the distance to our left we could just make out the top of the sugar shack pumping station.  We walked along, saw it slide past us below and continued on until the path hooked up with the original sugar shack road that ended at the fields. We turned a sharp left, came to the shack and continued to the now familiar bridge and creek.

It would be a steady climb back up through the logging road, up the western fields that belong to the old colonial, across Jericho Street and to the back gate of our own fields.  The girls and Calvin hadn’t moved much. We crossed our field puffing from all the upward climbing.  The entire hike was not very long, but the experience was thrilling.  For ninety minutes I was lost in the moment of some physical strain, simple scenes, quiet, and majestic views.  I can’t wait to go back.

Peg

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