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Yankee Shangri-La

It was nearing the end of October, the fires of fall had long faded, and winter was on its way. The winds were bitter now, and brought a fierce chill in the icy blasts that blew the remaining leaves from the trees. I ran into a friend of mine, and he seemed excited. He explained he had found an abandoned house earlier that morning en route to work, and wanted to go back and check it out. I decided to join, setting out into the wild backroads of the Northeast Kingdom.

By now, we had been traveling on remote dirt roads for a while, and we were at the point where most roads we passed didn’t have any street signs labeling them. We were in the middle of nowhere, without cellphone service. The hill began to get steeper, and the road turned into something that was probably more of a four wheeler trail. I could tell it hadn’t been maintained in a while, evident scars of previous road wash outs showed gravel deposits that had been pushed deep into the forests on the side. As his SUV bumped and jarred around, I kept my eyes open for anything matching his description of the house in question, while questioning if taking this road was such a good idea or not. Then, on the right side of the road,  I saw something.

As soon as I turned to my friend, he put the car in park. “This is it” he said, confirming my question. I stared out the window at this strange structure, and words escaped me. I had no idea what to make of it, I wasn’t even sure it was abandoned. Ok, it was pretty ramshackle, and it looked like it was on the verge of collapse. It didn’t look like it had electricity, and the “yard” was littered with old rusted cars from decades ago. But something didn’t feel right. There were several bright “No Trespassing” signs nailed to the trees in the front, as well as a few posted on the structure itself. That’s not so abnormal I thought to myself. That was until I saw a dog come towards the car. “Joe, there’s a dog outside…this place can’t be abandoned. Someone has to own that dog” I stated. But he had already opened his door and was climbing out of the car. “Let’s check it out” was his reply. Shrugging my shoulders, I followed him. The dog was a little bizarre, but my curiosity was stronger. Then to my surprise, two more dogs appeared behind the one that had made its way over to us. I know knew for a fact that this place was anything but abandoned.

A little unnerved now, I took my camera out from its bag, and got ready to take a picture of the place. If we drove this far, I might as well get one picture I thought to myself. I looked through the view finder, and as I lined up my shot, I noticed something else in my picture besides the building I wanted to capture. There was a woman staring at me, a questionable look on her face. Now things were going to get interesting I thought to myself.

I lowered my camera as a sign of respect, and she walked towards us, the dogs barking wildly. But to my surprise, they were friendly, as they kept nudging my hands and wagging their tails. “Can I help you?” asked the woman, who was now standing in front of me. I fought to choose my words carefully.

“Hello miss…I’m sorry, I didn’t realize….” she cut me off. “You didn’t realize anyone lived here.” she deadpanned, still looking at me quizzically. I had a hard time reading her, I couldn’t tell if she was angry or just as curious by our presence as we were with hers. “No, I’m really sorry. See, I was told this place was abandoned… I’m what’s called an urban explorer, I take pictures of abandoned places” She didn’t speak for a few moments, but the awkward silence was broken when she started to laugh. “Haha, well I have to say. I’ve been approached by many people before about my house, but I can honestly say you’d be the first ‘urban explorer’ I’ve ever met. Is that really a thing?” I laughed at that. “Yes ma’am, people actually take pictures of abandoned places for fun” I said that with a sense of pride in my voice. “And you’d be one of them” she retorted, a smile now on her face. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean any disrespect, honestly.” She waved her hand, dismissing my apology. “No need to apologize, I now know you weren’t here to cause trouble. Most people who do stop by tend to be more of a hell raiser then you”

“Do you get bothered often?” I asked, a hint of concern and innocent curiosity in my voice. “Plenty” she wasted no time in answering. “I have punk teenagers and driving up and down this road at all hours of the day, yelling vulgar things and throwing rocks at my house. I’ve even had people stop and try to explore the place. They’ve walked right into my living room before! I’ve had to chase them out!” That must be an amusingly awkward scenario for both parties. One one side, you are surprised to find out you are in someone’s living room, and on the other side, you are surprised to find a trespasser in your living room.

“Oh man, that’s terrible” I said. But honestly,what do you say to something like that? This whole situation was pretty unique, if not completely bizarre. But the woman was very friendly, she seemed she was almost grateful for our company. “I bet you’re wondering what this place is” she said, a grin appearing on her face. I looked at her, not really knowing what to say. Yea, I was very curious, but how do I phrase my answer without insulting what seemed to be this woman’s home. “Yes, the thought did cross my mind” I said laughing, trying to appear friendly as possible. She laughed too. “Well, you happen to be looking at my house!” She gestured her arm at her personalized property. I could tell she was proud of it. “Here, do you have a few moments?” she asked. “You drove all the way here, I might as well give you the grand tour if you’d like?”

I couldn’t believe this. One minute we were slated as suspicious characters, the next we were being invited into this woman’s home. I was incredibly humbled. “I would love a tour, but would I be imposing?” She assured me I wouldn’t be, and motioned for me to follow her. “Are you going to take pictures?” she asked me, as she eyed my camera. “I’d like too, but would you prefer me not too? I want to be respectful of you and your property”. She smiled at this. “No! Of course you can take pictures!” She then quickly looked at her house, her facial expression changing. “Oh wait! not yet! let me clean up a little first, I wasn’t expecting company” Her statement was sincere I could tell, but I couldn’t help laugh a little at the irony of her comment.

She led me and my friend up the very steep and slick bank to her “front door”. The slight incline was a lot steeper and more slippery then it looked from the road, I found myself gripping the nearby trees as I climbed. It took her no time at all to reach the door, she was used to the walk. “Be careful!” she said, her voice full of concern. I found my way up to her front porch area, a crude landing built with a collection of pallets and planks of wood. A rather large reclining chair sat in the corner that looked pretty comfortable, until I remembered that the chair was outside all year long. I put my hand on the side, and it sunk into the wet material. I had forgotten it had just rained. She was already inside now, picking up various items and putting them in chosen places. “I’m almost ready! Please, come in” she yelled. I did. The inside of the house looked no more different then the outside of the house. Except it was more inclosed and there was more furniture. I noticed her walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookcases, all filled with old books. “See my books?” she said with pride. “You probably guessed, I love to read” She was also an artist. She knit rugs and liked to oil paint, a few of her paintings sat in a corner nearby. She was a fascinating woman.

“So, tell me, you’re into taking pictures of abandoned houses?” she brought that up again. I laughed at this, as I have gotten the same reaction from so many others. “That’s a really interesting hobby. But then again, you’re a very interesting gentleman” she said with a smile on her face. I knew she had just complimented me. “I’m Chad by the way”, and held out my hand to introduce myself. The least I could do was tell her my name, she was friendly enough to invite me into her home. To protect her identity, I’ll disclose her name.

“So, let me tell you about my house” she said as we continued to walk around the inside. I kept watching my step, it was pretty cluttered inside and the ramshackle construction left me in a cautious mindset. Her story was incredible.

She fell in love with a man from Connecticut and had two children with him.He earned a very decent salary working at IBM and eventually, he retired because he had earned enough to live comfortably for the rest of his days. They had purchased property in the wilds of Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom, and it was here where they planned to build their dream house. They made the journey up in her beat up old Chevy van, where it broke down right on their arrival at their property. It hadn’t been moved from it’s resting place since. They ran into immediate obstacles such as zoning laws and permits for building a house, and running electricity and water to their remote mountain property. The land was ledge, so a lot of it would have to be professionally blasted to make way for any foundation.

Their arrival in the Green Mountain State wasn’t as welcoming as she had hoped, but she remained optimistic and kept her vision of her grand home and soon to be happy life in mind. But sadly, it wasn’t to be. Her lover (for reasons not exactly known) fell for another woman. She became teary eyed at this point of the story. “He just began to hate me…” she said. The tension in their relationship became unbearable, and he spontaneously up and left her to be with his new lover. As for the kids, with a little bribery and vulgar comments towards her, he convinced them to go with him. As her life crumbled in front of her, she now found herself stuck with a piece of rugged property, miles from civilization with no money, no house and no family. She couldn’t go anywhere, she had no one to turn too, she was alone.

But instead of giving up, she stayed strong, and harvesting her Yankee Ingenuity, she began to build her dream house. The materials came from sources of all kinds. Garage sales, scrap heaps, junk yards, things she found on the roadside, donations, anything she could find. Soon, her ramshackle castle began to take shape as she single handedly built the foundation, floors and ceilings of her home. “See these beams?” she said, as she pointed over head to some incredibly thick wooden beams that held the ceiling up. “I put those there, by hand, by myself” I couldn’t believe it. They looked like they would be far too heavy for anyone to lift alone, yet alone get them at that height, up that steep bank. “Ropes and pulleys” she said, sensing my confusion. “All hand made, right here on the property”. To say I was impressed was the greatest understatement of the moment. I was baffled. The house started out with one room, and over the years as she got more building material, more were added. She then expanded, and created a loft upstairs. She is an experienced builder and carpenter as it turns out, so she knew what she was doing. “It may not look it, but this place is actually incredibly sturdy. The strongest winds won’t knock this place over, and trust me, I’ve been hit by some bad storms before” she said. I was still in awe. “What do you do when it rains?” I ask, noticing the holes in the roof and walls. The rain doesn’t bother her. “if it rains, it rains” she says. “Most of my valuables are protected, and if a little gets in the house, it’s not the end of the world”. In her situation, simplicity and modesty were everything. You can’t get too attached to things. As for her children, she fought for custody – the one time she went to the state for legal aid. And was declined flatly. “It’s unfair” she said. “They take one look at my house, and judge me, tell me I’m unfit to be a mother”. Her eyes were filled with sadness again. “My kids don’t even come and visit. I don’t have a TV or an XBox, they want nothing to do with me” I remained silent.

“Want to know my favorite part of the house?” she asked me, her eyes now twinkling. “Sure, I’d love too” I said, smiling at her. She brought me over to a corner of the house with a large window. “See this? I come here on clear nights after the leaves have fallen from the trees and just look up at the stars. The skies are so clear here, you can see for miles with no light pollution. It’s my favorite place in the world”. I could only imagine just how wonderful that must have been. “What do you do in the winter?” I asked her. “Surely it gets cold around here”. She pointed to a beat up old camper parked behind the house that I didn’t see before. “I sleep in there. There is no heat in the house, so I have no choice”. That made perfect sense.

As for food and other necessities, she walks 7 miles into town where the nearest grocery store is, every week, rain or shine. She doesn’t drive, and doesn’t mind the walk. She actually enjoys the walks. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy in town. They all spread rumors about me. But they are so quick to judge what they don’t know” I understood what she meant on a personal level. Because of a learning disability I have, I’ve grew up feeling like a social outcast. Though we may be facing different scenarios, the pain is relatable.

“Do you ever think about selling this place?” I asked. “I’ve been approached a few times by various people, but I always refuse offers. This is my home now, I created this and I’m not going anywhere”

At this point, several hours had passed, and the daylight was disappearing behind the silhouette of Stannard Mountain in the distance. I knew I had to leave soon. But that was a melancholic feeling. In the short time I had gotten to know this woman, I had grown to really like her. Apart from her troubled past and fierce perseverance, she was kind and intelligent. She walked us out to the car, her dogs following her. “I can’t thank you enough” I started. “For everything” She could tell I was being sincere. “I should be thanking you, it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope you got all the pictures you wanted” I nodded my head and told her I did. I shook her hand again, and prepared to leave back to college, the image of a warm shower in my mind. “Hey!” she called out. I turned around. “If you are ever in the area again, feel free to stop by. I can make us some tea” I assured her I would. One day, I honestly hope to take her up on that offer.

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To all of my amazing fans and supporters, I am truly grateful and humbled by all of the support and donations through out the years that have kept Obscure Vermont up and running.

As you all know I spend countless hours researching, writing, and traveling to produce and sustain this blog. Obscure Vermont is funded entirely on generous donations that you the wonderful viewers and supporters have made. Expenses range from internet fees to host the blog, to investing in research materials, to traveling expenses. Also, donations help keep me current with my photography gear, computer, and computer software so that I can deliver the best quality possible.

If you value, appreciate, and enjoy reading about my adventures please consider making a donation to my new Gofundme account or Paypal. Any donation would not only be greatly appreciated and help keep this blog going, it would also keep me doing what I love. Thank you!

Gofundme: https://www.gofundme.com/b5jp97d4

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Roads Less Traveled

Abandoned roads have a story to tell. They represent abandoned dreams and ambitious projects that reflect the growth and often tumultuousness of our society, or the irresponsibility of our governments, cracked asphalt scars that mar the landscape and are reincarnated into monuments of failure.

The Southern Connector

There is a stretch of abandoned interstate highway in Burlington’s south end, crumbling to pieces as the urban development around it was designed purposely to obscure the fact the blighted stretch of pavement even exists, with privacy fences and shrubbery. If you’ve approached town via exit 13 or have driven on the southern section of Pine Street where it ends at Queen City Park Road, you’ve most likely seen the incongruous graffitied space blocked off by jersey barriers. And maybe, you’ve wondered what it was, or why it was there.

In the 1960s, American cities were jumping on the massive urban renewal bandwagon, which was aimed at revitalizing communities long forgotten by neglect, and the de rigueur of American suburbia. Being Vermont’s largest city, Burlington was having an identity crisis, and figured that Vermont’s largest city should be something more than an unflattering image of blighted industrial waterfront and vacant downtown. So, The Queen City jumped on the urban renewal bandwagon. Their grand vision was a multifarious one which envisioned many future facing wonders; a shiny new downtown area connected to it’s environs by an efficient circumferential highway. They achieved this dream by using the power of eminent domain, and discombobulated an entire neighborhood of primarily Italian immigrants, to build canyons of featureless brick, glass and concrete, with loads of parking real-estate, which reflected the precipitously rising car culture obsession.

Stage two of the plan was to build a highway that would move traffic in and out of the city efficiently. Because Burlington was built on an awkward grid system from the 1800s, the city layout was never met to accommodate an unprecedented population rise or a society where everyone drove a car. Traffic was already piling up and into residential neighborhoods, which was frazzling local residents.

Construction broke in 1965, and the “Southern Connector” was started, creating today’s exit 13, aka, the Shelburne Road exit. But, the project quickly ran into problems.

Directly in the path of the proposed highway was a contaminated swath of swampland wedged between Pine Street and the lake.The Pine Street Barge Canal, a former industrial waterway turned Superfund site, was discovered to be highly polluted by the state of Vermont in the late 60s. If construction crews were to build over the canal, all of the trapped ground contaminants such as coal ooze and gasoline from irresponsible industrial disposal decades ago would all be released into the lake.

Because of this, construction halted, and a forlorn stretch of pavement was left stretching from Shelburne Road to Home Avenue. The only solution was to just block off the remained of the now unusable highway, and divert the exit to dump out onto Route 7. The project could go no further. Plans to finish the highway were proposed for several years, but it wasn’t until 2010 when plans resurfaced again. This time, it was recreated as “The Champlain Parkway”, and the reinvented idea was to merge the highway onto the south end of Pine Street, then turn the street into a 4 lane boulevard with updated pedestrian crossings and sidewalks, creating a main artery to and from downtown. But that too fell into problems, including concerns from south end residents who weren’t thrilled with the idea. Eventually, a compromise was made between city hall and opposed denizens, that include selective signage that only mark the anticipated parkway from certain directions, in an attempt to reduce traffic flow. But in the GPS era, I doubt that omitting signage in certain areas of the city will truly be a solution.

Today, the so called road to nowhere still goes nowhere, There are remnants of many homeless camps behind crumbling jersey barriers, and the local teen crew has converted much into a make shift skate park and a canvas for graffiti artists. It’s an interesting place to walk around on a warm spring day.

Places like this are special – an unusual contrast only separated from the dead eyes of the city by a chain link fence and new growth trees. Here it’s a different world, frequented by mysterious people of all types, all leaving their marks and appreciating what was otherwise left to rot.

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The Milton Speedway

A few miles to the north of Burlington is the growing town of Milton, which is nostalgically remembered for being the former home of Catamount Stadium, a legendary stock car racing stadium and a now demolished staple of local culture.

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Photo: Milton Historical Society
Photo: UVM Landscape Change Program
Catamount Stadium. Photo: UVM Landscape Change Program

In the 1960s and 70s, Milton had a reputation for being the “race town”, with a strong local culture and two lively institutions supporting it.

In the last century, Vermont had over 22 race tracks, with many being hastily created to assist the growing American car culture and it’s ripple effects. In 1960, the iconic Thunder Road would open in Barre, which was noted for it’s fine and thoughtful construction – something that resembled a modern track instead of the many crude and clumsy oval type tracks that were otherwise being built across the state. Thunder Road was such a success that the Vermont racing community began to brain storm. Building a track in a populated area near major transportation arteries would not only expand awareness of local racing culture, but give it’s participants more places to, well, race.

Milton’s proximity to New York, Quebec and Burlington and land which now was found to be conveniently suited for a racing track would be what would inspire Catamount to be financed and built by 1965 on farmland purchased from Kermit Bushey. A racetrack in town drew in lots of Milton locals and got them involved as racers, spectators or mechanics, which would prove to be one the things that would make the 1/3rd of a mile oval track such a success story.

The track was built to NASCAR specifications by excited local contractors and businessmen, and enjoyed considerable notoriety, those who remember it speak fondly of it. It hosted drivers of all skill, from nationally acclaimed to local heros, and would hold races of all varieties from circuit races to it’s grand finale of an enduro race, which many feel was an insulting way to go out. It was the type of place where car lovers and the curious could witness the latest trends in what would be racing on the track, or the more rigged homemade inventions and the characters that drove them. The locals would come with chips and a cooler full of beers, while the more prestigious could pay to sit in private boxes. All were there for a good time. One summer nights, the stadium could most often be found filled to capacity, and created a loyal fan base. The track would play host to adrenaline and voyeurism until 1987 when the Greater Burlington Industrial Cooperation, who curiously came in possession of the land, wouldn’t agree to renew the track’s lease, leaving Catamount with no choice but to shut down.

Apart from the stadium, Milton had another monument to man’s love of his car and pushing the limits of societal boundaries; a drag strip. In the 1950s, the young and reckless would find isolated stretches of road to drag race on. In 1963, the illegal sport’s popularity inspired local residents Herbert McCormick and Maurice Bousquet, owners of the former B&M Motors, to finance a drag strip of their own. At a quarter mile long, the track was a spectacle itself, located near the Route 7/West Milton Road interchange.

Photo: UVM Landscape Change Program
The Milton Speedway. Photo: UVM Landscape Change Program

Billing itself as “The Milton Speedway”, it was apparently quite active in its heyday. Old newspaper clippings show that the speedway was an animated place, and boasted cash prizes and contests. It’s allure drew some notable clientele such as Shirley Muldowney and The Royal Pontiac GTO Racing Crew, who all raced in Milton at one point.  But the drag strip’s existence was brief, as the phenomenal costs of resurfacing the road proved to be too much. It was closed by 1971.

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In the 1980s, Milton experienced a real estate boom – with the lure of cheap land and close proximity to Burlington – the community soon found itself shedding its old skin as a farming town, and becoming a bedroom community. A few neighbors of mine talked about how they remembered the old stadium when they first built their houses around 1984. Even 4 miles away, they recalled standing on their back decks at night underneath the cool summer skies and hearing the howl of the engines being carried through the dark.

By 1987, partially due to the exorbitant cost of automobile and track maintenance, the stadium closed forever, a sad loss for Milton. The Catamount Stadium was appreciated by the entire region, and its closure was a bitter one. Catamount was very much a community affair. A few Milton residents who I spoke with recalled their fathers, friends and neighbors who used to race there over the years. Today an almost excessive plenitude of automobile related businesses still line Route 7 through town, a fading reminder of a dead era.

The Catamount Stadium grounds were redeveloped to the successful Catamount Industrial Park, which today among other things, houses a helicopter sales business, a warehouse for Burlington based Gardener’s Supply Company and a printing company.

But one relic of Milton’s automobile past does still remain, if you do a little searching. If you head into town on Route 7, towards the grungy stained cinderblock walls of the Milton diner, there is a large vacant and gravely weed chocked field on your right. If you look far back into the field, you notice a perfectly straight segment of roadway that seems to emerge from the otherwise dead ground, and cuts into the woods behind it, going back as far as the eye can see. The pavement is cracked and potholed, weeds are plentiful, and the entrance is blocked by a set of very old Jersey barriers. This is all that remains of Milton’s drag strip.

The drag strip is hard to find now because everything is so grown up around it, so it doesn’t come as a surprise that most people don’t realize this small piece of history still exists. And if they stumble across it, do they know what they are staring at? The overgrown footprint continues for a few miles, until it abruptly ends in crumbling asphalt and birch trees, its ghosts sitting in the branches that tangle over your head.

Today it is a somber place, sitting behind a building supply store and a local diner, pretty much forgotten by the locals. The few that do remember the old strip refer to neighboring Racine Road as “Racin Road”, because the road runs directly parallel to the former strip, and is perfectly straight. Not surprisingly, some like to occasionally race there.

Last I heard, condos are scheduled to be developed on the upper half of the drag strip.

Two stretches of abandoned highways, both with very unique stories to tell.

The Milton Speedway Today.
The Milton Speedway Today.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fZGX8TGugJU#t=39

A great find on Youtube! The Milton Drag Strip, 1963. The identifiable shape of Cobble Hill can be seen in the background.

Links

If you are curious about the Catamount Stadium, or have fond memories of it, there is a great website devoted to it

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To all of my amazing fans and supporters, I am truly grateful and humbled by all of the support and donations through out the years that have kept Obscure Vermont up and running.

As you all know I spend countless hours researching, writing, and traveling to produce and sustain this blog. Obscure Vermont is funded entirely on generous donations that you the wonderful viewers and supporters have made. Expenses range from internet fees to host the blog, to investing in research materials, to traveling expenses. Also, donations help keep me current with my photography gear, computer, and computer software so that I can deliver the best quality possible.

If you value, appreciate, and enjoy reading about my adventures please consider making a donation to my new Gofundme account or Paypal. Any donation would not only be greatly appreciated and help keep this blog going, it would also keep me doing what I love. Thank you!

Gofundme: https://www.gofundme.com/b5jp97d4

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Grave Concerns

Every once and a while, I’ll have someone tell me a bizarre or strange tale that they swear has supposedly happened to them. Some of them are entertaining at best, but others surpass that, and create long lasting impressions. I don’t know, maybe I love these tales because they make me think that perhaps we’re something else than meat and bones, or perhaps it’s the allure of the ability for things to still exist that can defy any explanation that can be backed by science. Simply put; they challenge my very logical way of thinking and make me look at the familiar in an unfamiliar way. These are the stories that I would like to feature on this blog, and I think I found a good one to start with.

A Lost Town

Little River State Park in the town of Waterbury has shoreline on the beautiful Waterbury Reservoir, and extends into a grand patch of bumpy land that climbs up the mountains that form the back spine of lofty Mount Mansfield. Driving up Little River Road as it follows the sand banked river of the same name, it immediately becomes apparent that the area is wildly beautiful. But it’s tumbling topography yields another truth; the land up this way is rugged and rough. While outdoor enthusiasts really dig the state park, a century ago, the people who settled here weren’t as fond of the place – but their desperation for independence and land to build that on outweighed the many pitfalls.

The sinuous reservoir that snakes around green mountains was built for more practical purposes; to attempt to prevent ruinous floods that wiped out the town that once used to be here.

A century ago, real estate worked a bit differently than today’s trends. Prospectors pretty much settled anywhere where there was available land, including topography of the rough and rocky variety. Higher elevations were also less prone to flooding than down in the valleys, which is why many old stage roads or settlements can be found in higher elevations or places we may consider strange.

The slopes of Western Waterbury were cleared in the 1800s, and a small community of about 50 people formed, unofficially called “Ricker Mills”, “Ricker Basin” or sometimes, “The Ricker Mountain District”, all monikered after the large cluster of people who settled there with the same last name.

The settlement would eventually grow to encompass about 4,000 acres on the southeastern slopes of Ricker Mountain, which also took on the prevalent surname. But their choice of location made life up in the hills pretty rotten.

Most settling families were impoverished but they got by alright, their farms -which were hard to support on land that was mostly rocks – never prospered. The only other industries to really take off here were sawmills, taking advantage of mountains of timber and the many streams that picked up speed as they tumbled down to the valleys below.

Even today, some elderly residents who live in neighboring towns can still recall Ricker Mills as an existing place, and tell nostalgic stories of hardships. Families all had to pitch together to work on the farms in order to run a successful operation, and if one member wasn’t doing their job, the farm would limp or come to a stand still.

Eventually, younger generations began to slowly move away, looking for better opportunities. But the town’s death was sped up by the infamous flood of 1927 on November 3rd and 4th, when torrential rainfalls and frozen ground created a disastrous flood that paralyzed Vermont. The little river’s rising waters drove the valley residents to their roofs and isolated the settlement from the rest of Waterbury when the roads were washed out. In 1934, a second flood put an end to the already crippled community. Those who already hadn’t moved away were forced out when the state decided to close the roads into town for good, then began buying up all the land. The flooding inspired the creation of the aforementioned Waterbury reservoir and dam, a toilsome task built by five thousand men of the U.S. Army Corps Of Engineers and the Civilian Conservation Corps, who finally finished the massive retention project in 1938.

I attempted to go back roading back in March with a buddy, which was really just us sliding around wash boarded, muddy dirt roads a lot and wondering if it was a good idea.
We found ourselves at the foot of the Waterbury Dam. I was really digging the Art Deco detailing I was seeing.

Today, old cemeteries, sawmill remains, old town roads, bridges, and many cellar holes can still be seen as evidence of a past community. Surprisingly, a lone farmhouse from the settlement’s existence also survives off one of the trails; the ramshackle and haunted looking Almeran Goodell farmhouse, which was at one point a hunting camp before the park took possession of it. Little River State Park owns the land know, and a walk on one of its many hiking trails make these ruins easily accessible for anyone who wants to see them. Local lore maintains that when the water levels are low enough in the reservoir, which is now a popular place for outdoor recreation lovers, you can see the soaked and rusted remnants of the old iron bridge that once bridged Little River and was the main entrance into town.

Though the ghost town is an almost unsatisfyingly easy place to get too via Little River Road that parallels its river namesake, once you’re on one of the well-trodden hiking trails, it’s a surprisingly vast and desolate place, almost otherworldly. Tromping around the scattered ruins through bushy foliage that is brilliant in the fall, you can actually get a good sense of vanishing history.

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Stone foundations and a variety of constructions can be found throughout the woods on the trails.
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If you wanted to travel anywhere in the mountains, you had to cross plenty of streams, so local communities built “high bridges”, or, bridges built atop stone culverts to better withstand flood waters. But they often didn’t.
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The old road has long faded into obscurity.

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Last remaining house at Little River
The Goodell House is the last remaining house on Ricker Mountain, partially thanks to help from local Boy Scouts who fought to restore it, at over 140 years old.

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Foundation at Little River
Looking down an old well.
Looking down an old well.
Artifacts left behind
Artifacts left behind

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But does something else remain here other than stone foundations and weathered gravestones? Does something unknown skulk among the trees and silent swampland? I’ve heard more rumors than I thought I would that Little River State Park was haunted, but never have actually heard any specific accounts to back them up. Most details fall flat and don’t offer anything credible. A ghost town in the middle of a pretty remote stretch of woods is certain to conjure up some sort of folklore, though. Vermont is a state of extremes where either a topic has been written about to monotony, or it hasn’t been covered at all. I was hoping to break some ground here, and I knew I was onto something good when I heard this story.

A Night In The Woods

I’m proud to have been entrusted with this story, and to write about it in my blog. This is the first time this has ever been written down or told beyond a quite campfire in my backyard.

A few years ago, John, an experienced hunter took a hike into the wilds of Ricker Mountain. His plans were to spend a few days in the woods hunting and camping under the stars – a little much-needed rest and relaxation.  Being an experienced woodsman, he planned carefully. He found a suitable spot for his campsite, and began to clear it of brush and tree branches. He even found some nice flat stones nearby to construct a fire pit from.

People generally are in two different camps when it comes to spending the night in the woods. John loved it. The first night, he was almost asleep inside his tent when he heard a strange noise. In the darkness, he listened carefully. It sounded like fingertips that were scratching the outside of his tent. He knew he had cleared the area of any tree branches, and it was a windless night, so he thought it had to be an animal. But he noticed that the woods had descended into an eerie silence, a silence he has never heard before. After a while, the tapping stopped. He waited for it to start up again, but it didn’t. He soon shrugged it off and fell asleep.

The next night, he awoke to the sound of someone or something, tugging at his tent straps. Again the woods fell into that eerie silence. He sat up in his sleeping bag and tried to assess the bizarre situation, but couldn’t really think about what to do other than wait for something to happen. The tugging soon stopped, and nothing ever happened. But he didn’t go back to sleep – and spent the rest of the night in anticipation, waiting until the sun rose. The next morning he noticed that the tent strap hadn’t just been pulled, it had been cut! It was a clean-cut, as done with a knife, yet he hadn’t heard the sound of tearing fabric, or the noises of any other human around.

Weighing his options, he decided to stay another night, trying to jump to a logical conclusion that could explain the previous night’s events while also falling into the gravity of his stubborn nature. He nonchalantly assumed that whatever it was, it didn’t really pose a real threat to him, and it didn’t know how long he was camping here because even John didn’t know! Surely it was gone by now. He wanted to leave when he’s good and ready, because it was hard enough to get time off from work and he wanted to enjoy the little time he had. So he decided to stay.

But on the third night, John got the surprise of his life. He woke up suddenly when the bottom of his sleeping bag, which had moved in his slumber and was touching the tent wall, was grabbed violently “as with human hands” and forcefully yanked towards the tent door. He instinctively grabbed his shotgun next to him and yelled “try that again and you’ll be sorry!” and waited with bated breath and adrenaline for something to happen. But nothing did. Again he noticed the eerie, almost unnatural silence of the woods. Nothing was making a sound, and this time, he recalled being incredibly uncomfortable by it. Surely he would have heard whatever the intruder was, retreating across all the brittle fallen leaves near the campsite, but he didn’t.

He knew it would be foolish to leave in the middle of the night, especially because he didn’t know exactly what was out there waiting for him. He knew it would be a foolish attempt to get back down towards the road. So he spent the rest of the night awake, shotgun at the ready, and as soon as dawn cracked the dark, he began to frantically pack his things.

As he took down his tent, he noticed something peculiar. As he was ensuring that the embers in the firepit were extinguished, he noticed something about one of the stones he had used to form the circular wall that he hadn’t noticed before. Somehow, unknowingly, he had used a fallen headstone from a forgotten and neglected cemetery nearby, now almost indistinguishable from years of dead leaves and fallen branches.

John doesn’t believe in ghosts, and doesn’t subscribe to any of the mythology of the paranormal and the tales that other people chase, but he managed to choke out an out of character diagnosis. “Well, man I don’t know. Maybe it was one of the ghosts of Ricker Mountain, angry that I used their headstone as part of my firepit.”

I asked John if he would ever go back to Ricker Mountain. He just shook his head and said “nope”. I guess I can’t blame him.

Digging into Trouble

Upon hearing that strange tale, my own father came forward with a story of his own, one that was as unusual, if not frightening to me. Whether it actually happened or not…well, I’ll let you decide for yourself.

When he was in his early 20s, he and his cousin were fly fishing along The Housatonic River in the small Connecticut town of Kent, in the rural Litchfield Hills. It was a perfect spring afternoon, and they were having good luck on the river.

As they fished down the riverbanks, they came to a spot where a large row of power lines crossed over the river and up a nearby mountain. Mounted above a rather steep ledge above them was a large copper plaque. Being curious, they both got closer to read it. The plaque was commemorating a tragic death that took place on that very spot 100 years ago, when a copper mine collapsed killing an unknown amount of miners. They were standing on a mass grave. What happened next has no explanation. One of them suggested digging up the grave – or what appeared to be the grave site. The earth was soft and seemed easy to dig through. My father agreed. Being young and immortal, they began to pick away at the hillside. And within minutes, the pleasant spring weather turned ugly. The skies turned a dark black and before they knew it, a freak bolt of lightning struck the power lines directly above their heads.

Terrified, the two of them stopped their digging and hastily retreated back to the safety of their car. And that was when they realized that this wasn’t just an ordinary storm.

“I looked back, and noticed that the lightning was striking and hitting every tree or pole that we were running by! It was – it was like it was following us!” my dad said animatedly, getting caught up in his memory. They scrambled back onto Route 7, both breathing heavily and scared out of their minds. And just as soon as the storm started, it stopped. The skies were clear again. It was like nothing had ever happened.

They scrambled back onto Route 7, both breathing heavily and scared out of their minds. I guess anyone would be in that situation. And just as soon as the storm started, it stopped. The skies were clear again. It was like nothing had ever happened.

So is there an explanation here, supernatural or other? Was this just a bad freak storm that passed right over their heads? After all, New England is known for it’s weird weather. Or was it something more, perhaps it really was an act of vengeance from the angered ghosts of the dead minors who lost their lives under that very spot. Neither of them have an explanation, and the only conclusion I have is that they did experience something. One thing is for certain, they have never done anything that stupid ever again.

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To all of my amazing fans and supporters, I am truly grateful and humbled by all of the support and donations through out the years that have kept Obscure Vermont up and running.

As you all know I spend countless hours researching, writing, and traveling to produce and sustain this blog. Obscure Vermont is funded entirely on generous donations that you the wonderful viewers and supporters have made. Expenses range from internet fees to host the blog, to investing in research materials, to traveling expenses. Also, donations help keep me current with my photography gear, computer, and computer software so that I can deliver the best quality possible.

If you value, appreciate, and enjoy reading about my adventures please consider making a donation to my new Gofundme account or Paypal. Any donation would not only be greatly appreciated and help keep this blog going, it would also keep me doing what I love. Thank you!

Gofundme: https://www.gofundme.com/b5jp97d4

Donate Button with Credit Cards

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The License Plate House

One of my favorite oddities in Vermont to photograph is on the back roads of rural Fletcher. Instead of using traditional vinyl or wooden siding, the owner of this ramshackle structure had a much more original idea – he covered it wall to wall with what might be the largest collection of license plates in the state of Vermont. The plates range in age, dating as far back as the 1920s and going as late as the 1990s. Most were Vermont plates, but there were a few outliers. Connecticut, Massachusetts, Kentucky and Wisconsin were included. Knowing a good photo opportunity when I see one, I had to stop. Thankfully, the town of Fletcher seemed to be free of traffic that day, so I had the whole road and a good chunk of time to get a decent picture of the structure without worrying about my safety.

It was a beautiful spring evening, the sky was stained with a mixture of brilliant blues and pinks, which was a vibrant contrast to the green fields blooming with dandelions and the perfume of wet earth. As I was adjusting my camera settings,  I noticed that I was no longer alone. An elderly gentleman had walked up behind me. I assumed he was most likely the owner of the building. Just as I thought I was going to get a stern talking too for being too close and standing there for too long, he asked me how I was doing. He had a puzzled look on his face, but his question was sincere. I smiled and told him I liked his building. He looked over at it, then back at me, an amused grin on his face. I could tell he never thought of his own property as much of an attraction before. “You from the Burlington area, or are you a flatlander?” he said with a grin. I chuckled a little at this, suddenly a bit self-conscious of my appearance.  I’ve always been proud of my Vermont roots, and have never had to question my appearance before.

Then unexpectedly, he motioned for me to follow him with his hand, and before I knew it, he was digging in his pocket. Out came a key, and he began to fiddle with a padlock. There was an awkward moment where he and the garage door seemed to be fighting with one another. The building’s structure was so lopsided that it seemed either the door was going to fall out of it’s frame, or the building was going to collapse. But it finally gave way, and slid open on its rusty wheels.  “Well, are you coming?” he questioned. I asked myself the same thing, and stepped inside. He fumbled for the light switch and I heard the buzzing noise of a Mercury Vapor light come on.

Generations of artifacts and various knick knacks lay piled inside. So many in fact that the building was filled to it’s rafters, there was barely any room to move, yet alone get a good idea of where to begin processing what I was seeing. It was incredible.

There was a moment of awkward silence, I didn’t quite know what to say. I looked over and noticed he was now holding a wooden pipe in one hand, and packing it with tobacco with the other. As he lit up, it seemed at this point that he felt comfortable enough to start really engaging in conversation, and before I knew it, my questions were soon answered. As it turns out, this used to be a gas station, and has been in his family since the 1920s. His great grandfather started the business, and was a self taught and skilled auto mechanic, as well as a dedicated farmer. The gas station served as both his mechanic shop and his farm workshop. A perfect example of Yankee Ingenuity, he used the brook behind the building for power, by means of a homemade generator complete with a hand-carved wooden wheel that rotated with a belt attached to it. I was at a loss for words.

The gas station changed hands from his grandfather to his father and later, him. Locals from Fletcher who recall the place in operation said it was cool. One person told me that he used to drop by to gas up his call, and inside the office near the door, there was a tin can where you could leave your money. Everyone was on the honor system.

Its doors closed during the 80s when pressure from the gas industry forced people into modernizing the gas pumps, which was something the family couldn’t afford to do. The original gas pumps still sit out front – sort of. Last winter, a plow truck came through the area a little too fast and took them out completely. The town wouldn’t reimburse the family for the damages, so they did the only thing they could do – move the remains out of the road. He lifted up a weathered tarp and revealed the busted remains. Though damaged, the antique pumps were still a cool site to see.

I asked about the license plates, and his answer was simple. “We’ve owned a lot of cars”. Whether this was a true answer or just sarcasm, I was satisfied with his right to the point reply.

I can’t describe in writing the genuine old time feeling this place had to it, with it’s distinct barn smell and eclectic array of aging antiques and artifacts, sitting in cluttered piles collecting dust. But he assured me everything had its place here. “My dad had a system. He always knew where everything was” he told me.  I asked about some of the vintage posters on the wall, hoping maybe he would sell one for the right price, but my request was instantly meant with a stern no. “Nope. They’ve always been here on the wall and that’s right where they are going to stay”

What I didn’t realize, was that a lot of the antiques I saw actually didn’t belong to him. A lot of stuff came from family and friends from the Waitsfield-Warren area, being stored here after a lot of the farms down that way were damaged from tropical storm Irene. He also explained why the building was in such bad shape, another result of tropical storm Irene. The quiet stream that runs behind the building overflowed its banks and swelled through the cracks of the building and into the foundation. The damage is “too expensive to fix” and the state has deemed the place uninhabitable. “I can’t really do much but wait for it to fall down” he said, a sense of loss in his voice.

He gave the garage door another good wedge and pulled it shut. I thanked him for the tour and shook his hand. I could tell as he walked away that he was amused by my curiosity by his property, and as for me, I was just thankful he took the time out of that spring night to share it with me.

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Taken early spring of 2014, when I drove by again. Sadly, my original photos of the spring 2012 shoot were lost when my hard drive crashed. A poignant reminder to back up your work…

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To all of my amazing fans and supporters, I am truly grateful and humbled by all of the support and donations through out the years that have kept Obscure Vermont up and running.

As you all know I spend countless hours researching, writing, and traveling to produce and sustain this blog. Obscure Vermont is funded entirely on generous donations that you the wonderful viewers and supporters have made. Expenses range from internet fees to host the blog, to investing in research materials, to traveling expenses. Also, donations help keep me current with my photography gear, computer, and computer software so that I can deliver the best quality possible.

If you value, appreciate, and enjoy reading about my adventures please consider making a donation to my new Gofundme account or Paypal. Any donation would not only be greatly appreciated and help keep this blog going, it would also keep me doing what I love. Thank you!

Gofundme: https://www.gofundme.com/b5jp97d4

Donate Button with Credit Cards

 

 

 

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Silent Stations

There was a time in Vermont where even the smallest village had it’s own railroad depot, making a once removed community now accessible to anywhere within the nation’s rail system. It established a sense of identity and pride for local residents, provided the great convenience of transportation, and in many cases helped lure growth to the regions. Even the smallest ones were done with thoughtful craftsmanship. Many in Vermont featured beautiful wooden interiors made from local wood – a thematic reflection of their country location.

But today’s Vermont is a different place, one where transportation is mostly divvied up among the asphalt. Vermonters have Interstates 89 and 91 to take them places at high speeds now, and all our small towns and cities are connected by a road of some form. With the new luxury and independence of owning a vehicle, rail travel suffered a slow decline in the 20th century, and as a result, many train stations closed and became abandoned and neglected. In recent years, old train stations have been refurbished as private homes, others have been turned into restaurants. And in the case of this one, it sits idle and abandoned, conspicuously forsaken by the very town that once urged for it’s construction.

A somber visit

I happened on this small train station completely by accident as I drove by it. It was in one of those small Vermont towns with only a general store and a single stop sign. Just beyond the train station, the speed limit was raised from 25 to 50 mph and traffic wasted no time in speeding up out of the village limits. I decided to have a look around. The building looked like it was in good condition still, but nothing was being done with it. A peek through a dirt streaked window pane revealed the inside had been gutted, and was sort of being used for storage – the rooms housing stacks of cut lumber. I looked to my left and noticed a lumber yard right next door, who was most likely using the station as a shed. I walked around to the former train platform in back and found an open window. That was my chance. I wasted no time, and slipped in quietly and quickly, my feet landing on the dusty wooden floors.

Though there wasn’t much left to the inside, it was still fascinating. The walls were done completely in old wainscoting that was stained with kerosene oil, giving the walls a distinct color that only looked better as they cracked and aged. The station was small, with the ticket vendors office, central waiting room and a few side rooms making up the one floor structure. Inside, it was silent, my footsteps across creaking floorboards making the only sound. Remnants of old signs still stained the old walls. Former built in wall cabinets were now just holes in the wall – their records and artifacts long removed. The sky outside was over cast and a little dismal – grey light was seeping through the stained windows, creating a solemn ambiance. I stopped and savored the moment, knowing that back outside, I would soon be greeting by roaring impatient traffic and the real world. It’s this rare time of reflection that makes these locations so special.

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Inside Out

A chance find lead my tired self to another abandoned train depot, on my way home from another explore. It was in a quiet neighborhood, the type of place where we were probably suspicious just because we happened to be the only car slowly prowling the potholed gravel roads.

Still retaining much of its original character and woodwork, it had been abandoned and then converted into a garage, and then seemingly, abandoned again. The building was pretty much only a shell of what it once was, and it’s dusty old walls had the archetypal small town graffiti affixed to it by local kids most likely. But the antiquity still echoed here under the harsh late Autumn sunset.

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To all of my fans and supporters, I am truly grateful and humbled by all of the support and donations through out the years that have kept Obscure Vermont up and running.

As you all know I spend countless hours researching, writing, and traveling to produce and sustain this blog. Obscure Vermont is funded entirely on generous donations that you the wonderful viewers and supporters have made. Expenses range from internet fees to host the blog, to investing in research materials, to traveling expenses. Also, donations help keep me current with my photography gear, computer, and computer software so that I can deliver the best quality possible.

If you value, appreciate, and enjoy reading about my adventures please consider making a donation to my new Gofundme account or Paypal. Any donation would not only be greatly appreciated and help keep this blog going, it would also keep me doing what I love. Thank you!

Gofundme: https://www.gofundme.com/b5jp97d4

Donate Button with Credit Cards

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The Hoarder’s Fortress

Hidden in plain sight in the center of town, this sad looking house has a story to be told that would make misery proud.

This once attractive house is steeped in hard luck and roams in the ether. Though it was once a symbol of grandeur, it now stays down with its demons, lost to the vines that ensnare it – trying to keep its skeletons in.

As the story goes, the house was the home of an elderly woman, who over the years she lived there, became an extravagant hoarder. Eventually, the garbage inside reached ceiling level, and the house was in absolute squalor. A once proud and independent person, she now sealed her house like a fort, fighting her secret wars. 

She was eventually evicted, and the house became condemned, and left to sit there. Gazing upon it from the sun bleached sidewalk out front, it’s amazing how overwhelming nature can be when melding with something artificial; something man made.  These countless plants have securely attached and actually have became part the exterior walls. Who knows how long it would be before the force is too much, and the first pane of window glass breaks, allowing entry for the outside.

Summer Humidity

I had picked the worst day to investigate this house. It was an incredibly hot August afternoon, and the humidity was sliding off the streets. As me and a friend parked the car out front, I was beginning to rethink my decision, but decided to push forward.  Making our way through the urban jungle to the back of the house, we needed a way inside that was unobstructed by garbage. Walking through long grass that were needles that drew blood, the sweat that was forming on my body began to sting the fresh wounds as it entered. I finally found our entrance, the only door that had been spared by a barricade of garbage. The door swung open effortlessly, and we stepped into the dark interior, our eyes painfully straining to adjust.

Upon stepping into the kitchen, I soon realized I had my work cut out for me. The garbage was so high that the floors were not visible. In order to walk around, we had to awkwardly stumble across the top of the garbage mounds, which were well over knee deep in height. I now had to hunch over to prevent my head from hitting the ceiling, as I attempted to walk from room to room as I fumbled and fell in the unknown below my feet. Ironically, there were “paths” leading from room to room – obviously someone had went through the trouble of getting around in here before.

And then, something strange happened. Subconsciously, both me and my friend found ourselves being intently silent, daring not to speak in anything more than a whisper. Even stranger, we both seemed to recall our actions at the same time.

Another thing I didn’t anticipate was the humidity inside the house. It was stifling. I had only been inside 5 minutes, and between attempting to successfully move from one place to another while seeing where I was going in the smoldering shadows, I was already drenched in sweat. The summer heat baked the house, and the smell of plaster rot, mold, water damage and the cooking garbage was pungent. I had made my way through the kitchen and the parlor, and found a staircase on my right. The door had so much garbage on both sides that I had to spend several minutes attempting to open it just wide enough for me to squeeze through. Not surprisingly, there was more garbage on the stairs, making it a dangerous trip up. I looked at my friend, and she looked at me as if to say “your call”.  At this point, I was wondering what I had gotten myself into. Through the maze of littered hallways and staining shadows, it was almost like a silent challenge to the house, as if to say “come and find me”, as I felt smaller and smaller.

There were some other unusual things inside that I noted. The doors and windows were covered in strips of fly paper that had been there for years, hundreds of dead flies clinging to the stained yellow paper. Also, each door upstairs had a “No Trespassing” sign and a “No Smoking” sign nailed to both sides.

Old photographs, furniture, handwritten letters, priceless China and clothes lay scattered in heaps within each room. All that captured her heart was on the table, lost to the ether. Part of me wished the ghosts in the room would let me hear their voices when they ask what I see.

In terms of a psychological experience of discovery, this was quite powerful, allowing you to pick at the pieces of someone else’s puzzle, while allowing your wondering mind to read between the lines, telling yourself to come down, it’s alright. Underneath waning silhouettes, I felt strangely connected to this person I’ve never met before.

Today, the house has long been gutted, and is in the process of being renovated. It’s like this mysterious woman and her alien, lonesome world never existed. If there is one thing I’ve learned about life, inhabited throughout my urban explorations, is that no matter how grand something might seem, nothing is ever more than temporary.

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To all of my amazing fans and supporters, I am truly grateful and humbled by all of the support and donations through out the years that have kept Obscure Vermont up and running.

As you all know I spend countless hours researching, writing, and traveling to produce and sustain this blog. Obscure Vermont is funded entirely on generous donations that you the wonderful viewers and supporters have made. Expenses range from internet fees to host the blog, to investing in research materials, to traveling expenses. Also, donations help keep me current with my photography gear, computer, and computer software so that I can deliver the best quality possible.

If you value, appreciate, and enjoy reading about my adventures please consider making a donation to my new Gofundme account or Paypal. Any donation would not only be greatly appreciated and help keep this blog going, it would also keep me doing what I love. Thank you!

Gofundme: https://www.gofundme.com/b5jp97d4

Donate Button with Credit Cards

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Georgia’s Giant Puzzle Pieces

There is a rather unusual landmark in Georgia that may have some people scratching their heads. That is – if you can find it. If you trudge up a gentle hill through knee deep weeds, behind the Georgia Interstate Rest Area, you come face to face with these life-sized jigsaw puzzle pieces, sitting neglected in the Vermont woods. The irony isn’t lost on me here, as these weathered puzzle pieces are, well, a puzzle. What the hell are they? Why are they here? Who sculpted them? And why have they been forgotten?

As it turns out, these are a set out of of 18 sculptures designed and fabricated during the International Sculpture Symposium held in Vermont in 1968 and 1971, with the intent on decorating the freshly constructed interstate system and it’s rest stops. Matching grant funding was provided by the National Endowment for the Arts.

The event was organized by Paul Aschenbach, a well respected and now deceased UVM professor. The sculptors came from all over the world, and the output was meant to beautify and bring some life into the newly built rest stops along interstates 89 and 91, but instead, many of them have been forsaken and serves as monuments to enigmatic decrepitude.

The interstate coming through Vermont is fascinatingly turbulent. I didn’t cover much of that here, maybe I will in a future blog post. But – UVM has a pretty cool blog about it, with old photos.

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To all of my amazing fans and supporters, I am truly grateful and humbled by all of the support and donations through out the years that have kept Obscure Vermont up and running.

As you all know I spend countless hours researching, writing, and traveling to produce and sustain this blog. Obscure Vermont is funded entirely on generous donations that you the wonderful viewers and supporters have made. Expenses range from internet fees to host the blog, to investing in research materials, to traveling expenses. Also, donations help keep me current with my photography gear, computer, and computer software so that I can deliver the best quality possible.

If you value, appreciate, and enjoy reading about my adventures please consider making a donation to my new Gofundme account or Paypal. Any donation would not only be greatly appreciated and help keep this blog going, it would also keep me doing what I love. Thank you!

Gofundme: https://www.gofundme.com/b5jp97d4

Donate Button with Credit Cards

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Island of Shrieking Birds

Young Island has very little in common with the atmosphere of a faraway planet, and yet, its alien design is completely foreign amongst the rest of the Lake Champlain Valley. A barren wasteland, all the trees and plant life are dead- their leaves and twigs long plucked off. Weeds most commonly found in wastelands are the only living things that can grow and survive in this inhospitable place. In the center of this eerie landscape is the rotting shell of an old cabin- evidence that there once was human habitation here. And everything that is something is covered in toxic bird guano and molted rotting feathers, left to bake under the sultry summers. This intimidating and miserable island enjoys a unique reputation, and perhaps is one of the most mysterious places on Lake Champlain.

Though the island’s official name is Young Island, residents of neighboring communities have another moniker for this foul place; bird island. This blunt nickname also tells us the story of this small island’s mutilation.

At certain times, the rocky slab of land off the coast of Grand Isle seems to actually be quivering, but it’s not the heat of the day or some sinister preternatural force at work. Instead, the culprits are thousands of birds flying around the island. More specifically, Double Crested Cormorants.

Immigrants to Vermont, they were first spotted in the area around the 1970s near Young Island. In 1981, that number grew to 35. Recently, the population exceeded 15,000, (some say over 20,000) with 98% living on Young Island, and more recently, are beginning to become discovered on other islands around the lake.

Cormorants like to nest on remote islands, safe from predators and human habitation, making Young Island an ideal choice. But sadly, they are not welcomed neighbors to our region because their nesting habits are destructive, which are endangering the ecosystem of the lake. Cormorants settle into their new found homes by plucking away at the vegetation and tree branches, using the material for their big messy nests, leaving dead skeletons in their place. Their nests can reach as high as 2 feet tall and are built strong because adult Cormorants can weight up to as much as 12 pounds. The bird guano that now covers the island is acidic, and also helps kill the trees and the shrubbery and its foul smell can radiate for miles when there is a strong wind. As their numbers grow, they become a dominant and intimidating presence and prevent other species from nesting in the area – and Young Island is small, and space is at a premium. So much so, boaters, fisherman and a few residents from as far away as Grand Isle have reported hearing the loud and belligerent sound of countless bird shrieks, as they fight for space to nest. The island has been turned into a war zone.

So, what is being done about this problem? Or perhaps, why has it been allowed to happen? The answer is a simple one; Cormorants are a protected species, with the state arguing that they have as much right to nest and live near the lake as any other species. But recently, The Vermont Fish and Wildlife Department has made exceptions because of an increasing worry that Cormorants will soon migrate and destroy other islands. And this fear has became a reality as neighboring Bixby Island, as well as The Four Brothers Islands in New York have already began to see Cormorants nesting on their shores. The Fish and Wildlife Department is trying to keep the population from exploding, by oiling their eggs so they won’t hatch, and blasting nests from other islands with high powered water hoses. Taking advantage of a unique situation, UVM uses Young Island as a research environment, to study the Cormorants and their nesting habits.

Thanks to egg oiling, some have told me that the population has actually dwindled to “the hundreds” as less and less are returning to Young Island, or migrating to other islands across the lake – but so far, the damage to their other new found homes hasn’t been as destructive. Yet.

Regardless of the accuracy of numbers, spending time on Young Island isn’t for the squeamish. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t think of many other places that you could feel more isolated on. When brave visitors make their way onto the disturbingly intriguing island and through layers of bird guano, the baby Cormorants defend themselves with the only ammunition they have, they throw up whatever they’ve eaten for the day.

And if that isn’t strange enough, Young Island is one of the few places on the lake where Yellow Perch literally fall out of the sky. But these aren’t Perch you want to eat, these have already been eaten, twice – coughed up by a soaring Cormorant. And of course, Cormorants are also considered a threat to the local fish population, with the alarmingly high numbers they consume.

If you wish to see this unusual area for yourself, take a drive to Grand Isle’s West Shore Road, near the Vantines fishing access area, and Young Island will be to the north west. You can’t miss it.

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Young Island from Adams Landing Road
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Best picture I could take with my zoom lens. Here, you can get more detail of the house and the scrubby island floor. Any closer and I’d have to be in a boat. Since this picture was taken, the cabin’s roof has caved in.

—————————————————————————————————————————————–

To all of my amazing fans and supporters, I am truly grateful and humbled by all of the support and donations through out the years that have kept Obscure Vermont up and running.

As you all know I spend countless hours researching, writing, and traveling to produce and sustain this blog. Obscure Vermont is funded entirely on generous donations that you the wonderful viewers and supporters have made. Expenses range from internet fees to host the blog, to investing in research materials, to traveling expenses. Also, donations help keep me current with my photography gear, computer, and computer software so that I can deliver the best quality possible.

If you value, appreciate, and enjoy reading about my adventures please consider making a donation to my new Gofundme account or Paypal. Any donation would not only be greatly appreciated and help keep this blog going, it would also keep me doing what I love. Thank you!

Gofundme: https://www.gofundme.com/b5jp97d4

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The Walloomsac Inn

It’s a point of pride for a community to be able to call themselves the home of something, or boast themselves as a standout locality. Bennington’s tourism slogan bills itself as “Where Vermont begins”, and that’s pretty accurate. The sizable town is located on the right angle that creates Vermont’s southwest corner, 6 miles from both the Massachusetts and New York state borders on U.S. Route 7, the most traveled road in the state.

Bennington is the type of town that probably prefers to be known for its verdant scenery, state-mandated lack of billboards and quaintness with a pricey college and liberal vibe. But more cryptically, it’s also another gateway – to the state’s fabled Bennington Triangle, a vast area of mountainous wilderness to the northeast of town where people have been known to disappear without a trace. Though the “Bennington Triangle” won’t appear on Google maps or a Rand McNally atlas, Old Bennington certainly will.

The area of town known as Old Bennington is just that – it’s the oldest settled part of town, and an official historic district located on state Route 9 west of the present day Downtown. Probably the most identifiable landmark in a neighborhood of colonial-era homes, old burial yards and white picket fences, is a brooding structure towering behind a veil of trees and creeping vines. This locale upholds as my favorite sight in town. Maybe because it looks like it doesn’t belong right in the epicenter of the tourist hub historic district that prides itself on aesthetics, or maybe it’s because it holds a great mystic to it.

It’s sagging porches and balconies and weather-beaten wood facade with crooked shutters conjuring a wistful image that carries the weight of its ghosts. The building successfully drew my attention, and apparently every other passing car, as many slowed down in front of me to take a better look at the place before speeding up back to the legal limit and heading down the hill towards downtown. So, what is this place? Its appearance is so galvanizing that it’s impossible not to go woolgathering when you gaze at its gray entropy and wild vines against the idyllic clean whiteness of the clapboard church that sits just at the other end of the corner.

You’re staring at the ruins of The Walloomsac Inn, once a venerable hotel with a storied legacy, now an intriguing eye magnetic corpse that mystifies and takes your attention successfully.

However, despite appearances, it’s not abandoned. The family who owned the hotel in the last years of its life, still live there. I recall hearing a story where, years ago, a writer for the Bennington Banner ventured to the front door to check the place out, and was not so pleasantly surprised when the owner greeted them.

So, what’s the story here? The Bennington Museum website turned out to be a great source of information. The hotel has the distinction of being the oldest in Vermont, something most people would probably never guess. Dated back to 1771, the mystery immediately begins with its construction. Popular wisdom states that it was built by Elijah Dewey, son of Bennington’s first minister, but others have said that claim is false, leaving it up for speculation, but from my research, the inn was first run by the Dewey family. The original structure still stands today, the part directly facing the cemetery, which also happens to be the part of the hotel that is still currently inhabited.

In 1818, the inn was purchased by James Hicks and his family and became known as Hicks Tavern. The tavern doubled as a stagecoach stop, and because the journey to and from New York was a long one, taking around four days to complete, its location proved to be good for business. Hicks eventually enlarged the building in 1823, adding the third floor and installing a ballroom on the second floor.

The Inn grew in popularity until 1848 when the railroad came to the region, ending stagecoach travel. While many herald the railroad as a cause for celebration, Bennington was served by something called a “corkscrew line”, operated by the Rutland Railroad, which is as terrifying as it sounds. The stretch of tracks were known for their “spectacular derailments“, which probably weren’t as celebrated. The inn was purchased by George Wadsworth Robinson, who changed its name to Walloomsac House, after the river of the same name which runs nearby. But business was never quite as successful as it was during the stagecoach era, when travelers would arrive at its doorstep, so in a vain effort to attract summer visitors, Robinson constructed observatory towers on nearby Mt. Anthony, which would have offered impressive views of 3 mountain ranges; The Greens, Berkshires and Taconics. Unfortunately, the mountain’s high winds often blew them over and because putting people’s lives at risk is bad for business, the idea was abandoned. Eventually, the hotel changed hands again, this time it was bought by Mrs. Mary Sanford Robinson and her brother, Samuel Sanford.

In 1891 Sanford hired a proprietor named Walter Berry, who after five years was able to purchase the inn and it has been owned by the Berry family ever since. Walter Berry decided to expand the hotel, and added the large three-and-a-half-story addition on the rear of the original building, which is probably the most photographed part of the hotel.

The hotel operated sluggishly until around 1996, the property closed for good, and time has sadly not been kind to it. I spoke to a few people who recall staying there during the 80s, and gave me descriptions of the place being dusty, run down and musty, with sort of an uncomfortable feeling attached to it.

If this blog has been able to prove anything, it’s that things fade with time and neglect – the Walloomsac wasn’t immune to that rule, and continues to deteriorate for all to see. The current owners most likely can’t afford the massive bill to fix it up, and state historic preservation regulations no doubt have provided a massive obstacle to deal with, but its state of limbo is a rather curious one. The information on the internet is surprisingly sparse.

I can only imagine what the inside must look like. Are there dark and musty hallways and ancient guest rooms covered in dust and disarray? Does sunlight swirl through the gaps in the broken shutters, making linear patterns on the dirty walls? Or perhaps it has been renovated and cleared over the years, leaving only the shell? Or maybe, the grungy outsides are hiding a lavish interior, which would be a great joke and a lesson on judgment all in one.

A friend of mine, who has an obsession with the old hotel, had stopped in Bennington in May of 2015 and wrote me an email with some further clarification about its condition.

The hotel’s current owners, descendants of the Berry family, are merely following instructions of the family will, which stated that no one is to touch the building, and to leave it as is. But, it seems they may have took it a little too seriously! While it may look like it’s going to collapse, another bit of research revealed that underneath the wry expression of its decrepit clapboard siding, the hotel is actually made of brick underneath, which is why the building is showing almost no sign of slumping or bowing into a shape that would rattle a state inspector. That was something that amazed me on my first visit.

While the old hotel, rotting in the middle of town, has a pretty storied history behind it, I sort of enjoyed the place more when it was enigmatic to me, and left my mind to its own devices.

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View from Route 9. The original 1771 structure (with front porch) and the newer addition in the back left.
View from Route 9. The original 1771 structure (with front porch) and the newer addition in the back left.

I stopped by again during summer’s last days of 2016 and got some more photographs. I will never object to making a jaunt here for a photo opportunity, it’s one of my favorite haunts in Vermont, and that day, a storm I was racing just happened to catch up with me outside, giving the place, and my photographs, some great atmosphere.

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Years ago, I had the pleasure of befriending Stuart Clough in an urbex related Facebook group. We both had similar interests and personalities and just clicked. He is also interested in the Walloomsac, and actually got his hands on an old book that featured both its history and photographs of the inside! He graciously scanned the photos and sent them my way, which I was incredibly excited about.  Thanks Stuart!

The Most Interesting Statue in Bennington

A passing thunderstorm was making its way over The Green Mountains, and the air became noticeably cooler, as a pungent earthy smell rode the winds that blew. The Walloomsac Inn underneath dark thunderheads certainly looked like the stereotypical haunted house.

Back in the car, myself and a good friend joining me for a road trip headed back towards Route 7, but stopped when we saw a startling statue in front of the Bennington Museum that looked all kinds of infelicitous. We pulled into the parking lot to get a better look, and I had no idea what I was staring at. A giant bronze statue of Abraham Lincoln with his green-ish weathered hands placed on the head of two naked companions, one of them a small child. What?

I’m sure there had to be a story here. Later on, Seven Days would come to my aid and answer the question behind this puzzling statue. As it turns out, the sculpture, designed by Clyde du Vernet Hunt, was actually intended to be more uplifting rather than suggestive.

In a nutshell, the two people kneeling in front of honest Abe were taken from two other sculptures he had commission earlier, the boy came from a piece called “Fils de France,” which depicted a naked boy gazing into the distance in his own reverie, was supposed to symbolize France’s rebirth. The girl came from his piece, “Nirvana”, which is said to represent “spiritual emancipation from passion, hatred, and delusion.” The figure of Abraham Lincoln was sculpted in 1920, and he made the unfortunate decision of combining the three pieces together, thus creating “The American Dream” – the official name of the sculpture. Maybe it’s just me, or maybe Clyde really missed the point he was going for.

The statue has become a landmark, but probably not like the artist would have wanted. Instead of a symbol for the virtuous, it acts as a novelty to teenagers who take their pictures with it. But I suppose, art is subjective.

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To all of my amazing fans and supporters, I am truly grateful and humbled by all of the support and donations through out the years that have kept Obscure Vermont up and running.

As you all know I spend countless hours researching, writing, and traveling to produce and sustain this blog. Obscure Vermont is funded entirely on generous donations that you the wonderful viewers and supporters have made. Expenses range from internet fees to host the blog, to investing in research materials, to traveling expenses. Also, donations help keep me current with my photography gear, computer, and computer software so that I can deliver the best quality possible.

If you value, appreciate, and enjoy reading about my adventures please consider making a donation to my new Gofundme account or Paypal. Any donation would not only be greatly appreciated and help keep this blog going, it would also keep me doing what I love. Thank you!

Gofundme: https://www.gofundme.com/b5jp97d4

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No Tell Motel

When I first knew I wanted to become a local weird worker and started plotting Vermont road trips to weirdness and wonders, Flory’s was on my list. I was younger then, I recalled seeing it numerous times driving through Rutland to my deer camp in East Wallingford growing up. It was abandoned, it was creepy, and it fueled the imagination and boredom of my late teenage mind, before I grew a bit older and my paths began finding a way to the surface.

There is a set of shady and conspicuous ruins that are crumbling to pieces at a major entry point into the bustle of Rutland City, and its neighbors aren’t giving them so much love.  As these buildings become disfigured by neglect, and the decay spreads from the first patches of mold to crumbling plaster and collapsing roofs, they become black eyes of the community and act as silent invitations for suspicious activity or banter that’s not praise.

In this constellation of dead places, there is a shopping plaza, a burger stand, a gas station and a motel, connected by patchworks of parking lots turning into weed pits. One commonality forever links all of these places together; they all wear the name Flory, which would account for the many locals who refer to this aging stain as “Floryville”

Perhaps the most interesting place in this collection of decrepitude is Flory’s Motel; a simple 2 story rectangular building with collapsing balconies and broken windows. Opening in 1968, it sold itself as a family destination in the heart of Vermont’s ski country. At the time, Rutland had a booming tourism industry which was fueled by the allures of the nearby ski resorts of Pico and High Pond – Killington would later follow in 1958. The commercial strips of Routes 4 and 7 became lined with motels and restaurants that would cater to the visitors.

But times changed, as new homogenized chain hotels were built along the ‘RutVegas strip’, and the glitzy hotels and mountain chalets of Killington opened their doors. That, and a new portion of U.S. Route 4 was constructed around 1986, creating an interstate type highway which bypassed south of Rutland, running from Route 7 all the way west to Whitehall, New York.

With new competition and Rutland’s declining reputation into the 21st century, Flory’s Motel eventually closed around 1989. But it wasn’t just the motel. It seems that the entire Flory empire fell into ruin at one point, leaving nothing but decaying husks along Route 4 as an unceremonious eulogy to the family name and a giving the place name Center Rutland sort of a sketchy reputation.

Admittedly, the defunct motel’s history didn’t really interest me – tons of other ruins across the country more or less had similar destructions. It’s both the urban legends that surround its corpse and the simple fact that it’s just there that made it intriguing to me, and on my ODDysey to explore as much of obscure Vermont as I can over the years, I put it on my list.

With its rampant fungus and collapsing floors, there’s no chance that the motel will ever be reopened.

Since it’s closing, most anything of value has been stolen. Copper wiring has been stripped from the building and it has become a haven for druggies and the homeless. The thought of human habitation in this foul place seems absurd. And yet, in the lonely rooms smoldering in darkness and mildew, there were piles of new Arizona jeans, cases of bottled water and bed sheets for curtains.

Seeing that gave every single awful story I’ve ever heard about this place a tendril of believability, which ranged from meth labs to cults and their arcane rituals to vagabonds that chase visitors away with blunt objects.

The floors were rotting away, some too dangerous to walk on. Most of the lobby could have disintegrated into the black cellar below at any moment. The busted jukebox in the corner never playing that song from yesteryear when everything was alright. The balconies were treacherous to walk on, and could collapse with just the right amount of weight, which thankfully I didn’t appear to amount to.

In one room upstairs, me and my exploring companion had an uncomfortable experience. While checking out the row of accommodations upstairs, I stepped into one of them, before being called over to another room for a reason that I don’t recall anymore. When I returned to photograph that room I never got to shoot, there was a butcher knife newly stabbed into the rotting plaster walls – it’s wielder unseen. At that point, we decided to make a hasty retreat and called it a day.

Flory’s Motel was a dangerous location to visit. The structural decay and the possibility of running into a suspicious (and most likely dangerous) character made this a risky location.

But there is something to be said here. Though dangerous and imposing, the motel offers a more melancholy look into Rutland’s past, a relic of yesteryear and showpiece of a community fallen on hard times.

A few years ago, someone finally got rid of the motel via a successful arson attempt. I bet the neighbors don’t miss it.

*special thanks to Carolynn Ranftle from the Rutland Historical society for providing me with the information used in this article. 

Flory’s Motel in its heyday:

Flory's Motel

Flory's Motel

Flory’s Motel Today (Spring 2012):

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I was thankful that a dirty mirror was the only thing I found in this bathroom. I was half expecting a dead body.
I was thankful that a dirty mirror was the only thing I found in this bathroom. I was half expecting a dead body.

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My exploring protocol is to see as much as I can during my visitation hours, and I noticed there seemed to be more property behind the motel. That property was a brookside area completely grown wild with nasty vines and waste weed that were writhing around a collection of junked vehicles, which only increased the creepy vibe to this place.

—————————————————————————————————————————————–

To all of my amazing fans and supporters, I am truly grateful and humbled by all of the support and donations through out the years that have kept Obscure Vermont up and running.

As you all know I spend countless hours researching, writing, and traveling to produce and sustain this blog. Obscure Vermont is funded entirely on generous donations that you the wonderful viewers and supporters have made. Expenses range from internet fees to host the blog, to investing in research materials, to traveling expenses. Also, donations help keep me current with my photography gear, computer, and computer software so that I can deliver the best quality possible.

If you value, appreciate, and enjoy reading about my adventures please consider making a donation to my new Gofundme account or Paypal. Any donation would not only be greatly appreciated and help keep this blog going, it would also keep me doing what I love. Thank you!

Gofundme: https://www.gofundme.com/b5jp97d4

Donate Button with Credit Cards