forgotten – Page 3 – Obscure Vermont

October 16, 2012March 31, 2020

Picking At The Bones

As the chill in this season sputtered and spit outside, I was comfortably warm inside the car as we headed on a 7-hour drive from the Burlington area to unfamiliar territory. But my friend grew up in this part of the North Country, and was playing tour guide today. It felt nice to get out of Vermont and see new places I was completely unfamiliar with, leading on with nothing but my curiosities and perceptions as the untamed mountains and silent swampland hinted at its secrets and its troubles.

But as the hours passed and the surroundings became increasingly different, conversation began to slip away and I became haunted by the hardscrabble landscape. Unlike Vermont, with its tamed meadows and gentle hills, this region was wild and more disheveled, with less open land and grungy backwoods towns where you can taste the desperation, isolation, and hardships in its blood – all turning towards the riotous color of the Autumn hills and ledges which literally fought with the roadside for dominance over the landscape.

“So, where are we going?” I asked after a lengthy amount of time. “Not sure yet – I was sort of just hoping we’d find a place as we drove by and check it out from there”.

At that point I had to laugh to myself. Here we were, driving sort of aimlessly through sprawling mysterious woodland with no set goal in mind. If I was with anyone else, I would have been a little doubtful at this point, but I trusted his wisdom fully. Now that I thought of it, it had been at least 30 minutes where we hadn’t so much as passed a house, trailer, or even a set of power lines. Few places in Vermont could compare to the loneliness and isolation here. The Northeast Kingdom perhaps. But here – this was truly wild land.

But his point was valid. The further we got from Vermont, the more abandoned buildings sat along the roadside. It was now more common to see an abandoned house as opposed to one that is inhabited still. And the ones that were lived in perhaps would have been better abandoned.

By now it was getting late, and we still had yet to find a location that would be possible to explore. I could tell the same thoughts were weighing on his mind as well. “Shit, it’s getting late” he said, realization in his tone. “Any ideas?” There was a moment of silence before we passed a directional sign. One of the communities listed he recognized and his face lit up. “I think I have an idea – you’ll like this” he promised, as we made a sharp turn on another winding back road.

Of Mountains and Mines

After another 20 minutes or so of twisting, stomach-churning turns and an indistinguishable landscape of scraggly fir trees, the road took a sharp drop down a rather steep hill, below us stretched the rooftops and church steeples of a small village. He slowed the car down for a second before progressing further into town and pointed out his window. Several hundred feet below us in an unforgiving mountain valley sat the large crumbling ruins of an abandoned iron ore mine, it’s rusted tin facades and broken windows slowly losing the struggle against mother nature.

With a little research, I was able to find out about the mine and the town. In 1827, rich Iron Ore deposits were discovered in the area and soon mining operations began to tunnel their way into the hills. Almost immediately, the mining operations ignited a regional economic boom as railroad companies were lured to town, bringing several immigrant workers with it. Soon, the town shed it’s small-town skin and became a center for regional commerce. Many grand mansions climbing the steep hillsides were constructed by the mining company’s more prominent employees and a stately downtown was built, bringing some civilization to the unkempt mountain wilderness.

The busiest period the mines saw was during World War 2 when a great deal of material was needed to build Army aircrafts, making iron demands high and working conditions that would turn fingers to dust. Workers soon began laboring around the clock. The mines became so large that it was said that it took miners an average of an hour and a half to be transported in mining cars from the surface to their subterranean work site.

After the war, several economic depressions and the opening of larger and more prosperous mines out west brought an end to the mining boom, something the area never recovered from. In 1971, the mine closed its doors for good. And now ironically, what was responsible for building the town had also killed it. Today, the looming decrepit edifice of the mine still haunts the heart of this town. Crumbling and brooding mansions and vacant storefronts serve as fleeting memories of nostalgia. With not much of a tourism draw, the town may have a long and slow recovery ahead of it.

For whatever reason, I always recall a peculiar story about this town when I drive through it. Dated in a relatively recent newspaper article from 2012, it talked about a mysterious middle-aged man who once drove around town in a black Toyota pickup would ask people he would run into if they wanted to purchase some steak of chicken from the back of his truck, origins both unknown and ungiven. A police report was eventually filed, and as it turned out, the same guy reportedly broke into someone else’s house who also had a run-in with the mysterious gentleman and refused to buy any meat.

This leaves a lot of questions about the suspicious meat. What kind of meat? Stolen Meat? Who knows I guess. As far as I know, no one seems to have complained about any further incidents…

Back to my story.

Fading Light

With the mine in sight, the question was, how were we going to get there? We had been driving for so long that we were working with 2 hours of remaining day light if we were lucky. The mine’s location was also hidden (perhaps deliberately) from the center of town. There were a few dirt roads with tumbledown houses scattered around the property, but none lead us right to the front gates. But as my friend informed me, that was probably for the best.

An elderly gentleman and retired police officer has taken it upon himself to self righteously patrol and monitor the perimeter of the property and the mines themselves. Though he has never had an encounter with him, he had been warned to avoid him at all costs.

As it turns out, he was a fabled local character, known for his imposing – if not psychotic behavior. He carries a gun at all times and won’t think twice about calling the local police and the state police. So it looked like we’d have to backtrack through the woods, and see if we can get onto the property that way. The security forces here were infamous for prosecuting trespassers within the fullest extent of the law possible, without exceptions, so we took every precaution we could.

Walking up a steep clay bank with trees battering our faces, my camera gear weighing me down a bit, we finally reached the now defunct railroad bed that cut through the woods towards the mines. “If we follow this, we should come out right behind it” my friend informed me. He seemed a little unsure about this, but I figured it’d be easy enough to get back to the road if we failed. So off we went, constantly swatting at the low tree branches that hung their claws over the old railroad bed. That must of been a comical site for a stealthy deer hunter. 2 lumbering guys with a good amount of camera equipment awkwardly stumbling through the woods.

After 20 minutes of walking or so, we were met with a surprise. We stood at the top of a rather deep trench, with steep clay banks and a tangled mass of weeds, rocks and sludge at the bottom. It seemed like it was the work of some sort of flash flood, and it was a very strange coincidence that it just so happened to follow the perimeter of the abandoned mine. We knew we’d have to climb down and climb up the other side if we wished to continue.

On the other side, we continued walking the old railroad beds, the sun was now beginning to set behind the mountainous piles of tailings at our sides. Then suddenly we saw something ahead of us, the silhouette of rusted pipes that stretched far above ground level. We had arrived. On the left of us was a small cinder block cabin, with rusted meshwork drilled over its broken windows, almost ensnared completely by the fall foliage. Inside the crumbling shack was a magnificent old scale which sat alone in the shadows. Above me was the rusted husk of some sort of steel building that was suspended far above my head, with only a dangerous rusted ladder as access. As it turned out, it was far too unsafe to climb on, so I stayed on the ground.

the washout had exposed old rusted pipes that were left exposed and dangling over the gap. climbing up and down the banks was terrible, as the earth kept sliding beneath our feet.

Just ahead was another interesting find – a large pile of discarded twisted scrap tin was left littering the side of the trail, stretching ahead of us for an impressive distance.

A few yards down the trail and the looming shapes of the mine buildings began to take form, towering far above my head, their colors almost lost to the heavy purple skies above. This was far larger then I had thought it would be. Now my excitement was growing, there was so much to see and so little time. Not wanting to feel rushed, but wanting to try to get as much shooting in as possible, we began to investigate.

The rusted tin, weathered cinder blocks and massive round silos all competed for attention. Each building was very large, the broken windows allowing some of the darkened interior to bleed out. It was almost overwhelming. Which one first? Do we go inside now, or do we walk around outside a little more and get exterior shots? Now a new thought entered my mind. The woods had grown into a startling stillness that I had never heard until then. The entire property was silent, the only noises were the wind occasionally blowing some rusted tin which echoed through the industrial catacombs of the interiors. It was an imposing place.

Trudging cautiously, we made our way up to a rusted steel door that was left ajar. That was going to be our entrance inside. However, when my friend opened the door, a large steel pipe that had been propped on the top fell downwards and smashed against the hard concrete floor below, making a thunderous sound that danced through the empty warehouses and rusted steel catwalks. I bet every hunter in the area heard that noise.

The worried look on my friends face told me something was wrong. “It’s a booby trap” he told me in a whisper. “That guy I told you about, he set up booby traps to ensure people won’t trespass. shit!” Though I didn’t say anything, I found myself admiring his cleverness. A sound that loud he would have undoubtedly heard. I expected within a few minutes we’d hear the roar of an ATV coming our way, accompanied by a guy who just might kill us.

We waited with hushed breath, not making a move. And no one came. Coming to a mutual understanding, we tried the door again, this time letting the giant metal pipe down gently and quietly as possible. The second time proved to be more successful, and we quickly yet carefully darted into the shadowy interior.

The adrenaline tapered off as we soon became one with the growing shadows of the night, the only company was the giant rusted machinery and the ghosts of the past that still lurked around – some for haunting, and some aching to be missed. There was a lot to photograph inside, you couldn’t help not be overwhelmed and anxious to see as much as you could.

Rusted pipes forming great geometric angles, filthy broken windows letting in mixed amounts of fading light, giant rusted gears and wheels and the skeletons of old converter belts that branched out into the bowels of the complex. It was simply fascinating.

And that’s when we heard it. The indisputable sound of a firing engine somewhere at the top of the hill. The low but aggressive humming went on for a few minutes as we waiting in the shadows, trying to assess the situation. Then, silence. Not wasting another minute, we crept back out the door and scanned the area. We saw no one. At this point the sun was setting, and we knew we’d need any remaining daylight to get back to the car.

As we made our way out, we heard another sound. The sound of a barking dog carried through the hills and dales, fading into the evening. That was never a good sign, so we immediately began our hike back down the tracks. At this point, we weren’t sure if we were hearing a hunting dog, or a tracking dog.

We couldn’t exactly tell where the barking was coming from, so all we could do is cautiously and hastily press onward towards the car. The barking grew louder and closer, but we still couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from. We began to walk faster, now strenuously scanning the woods in vain hopes to find it before it found us. Then, to make matters more interesting, we heard yet another sound. This one was long and filled with sorrow – its haunting bellows burned through the trees. I had no idea what it was, some sort of Wilhelm Scream being carried from somewhere out of sight. It was certainly enough to leave a bad feeling over my trembling skin.

Close Encounters

After a long grueling hike, we finally made it back to the car, and just as we thought luck was on our side, we heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Pulling out from behind the trees at the top of the hill, the large Ford truck gained speed before parking directly in front of our car, blocking us in. Wasting no time, a late middle-aged man got out, wearing a baseball cap, a faded flannel and some jeans, and he immediately began to get confrontational.

“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing here?” He spat. “This is private property, you’re all trespassing, and that’s a criminal offense” He was all spitfire, his eyes deep set and intimidating. I already knew this was the guy I had heard so much about.

My friend and I cautiously and slowly explained ourselves, trying to dilute the situation. “We’re photographers” I stated as, trepidation began to set in, but he remained silent, never breaking his accusatory stare. “We were interested in those old railroad tracks over there and the foliage. We’re sorry…we didn’t realize this was private property, there were no posted signs…”

He interrupted. “Trespassing is trespassing. There doesn’t need to be any signs. In New York, walking on anyone’s land is trespassing. You know, I’m buddies with all the state police up here, I can just call one of my buddies now and have your car impounded. Better yet, you fuckers can all spend the night in the Moriah Jail” Again, we calmly stood our ground and tried to diffuse the situation. In events like this, I’ve learned that the best tools are how you conduct yourself. Try to appear friendly, transparent, and interested in whatever they had to say, while not making them feel threatened or in danger. If you can make the confrontee feel valued and important, there is more of a chance that you get to walk away from the situation with little to no consequences.

After several back and forths between us, his eyes turned to our cameras. His anger had subsided a little bit, but not by much. “You guys like taking pictures so much? Ok – I’ll give you something beautiful to shoot” We stared at him, now caught off guard, the anticipation was horrible. What was going on?

“Head down the road, take a left at the four-way, then take your third left, and go about a mile down that road. There’s a hill there and you can see across the lake and into Vermont. You can even see the bridge from there. Best view in town. If you like taking your fucking pictures so much, you should go there”

We smiled at him and thanked him for the good idea, and for a brief second, a small smile crept on his face, only to vanish just as quickly. “Yeah, well, get out of here and go take your pictures. Don’t let me catch you here again” he snarled, trying to be intimidating again, and took off in his truck, speeding back up the hill, until we lost sight of it around a curve.

As it turns out, we only were able to see about 1/5th of the property. Fleeting daylight, under preparation and suspicious noises all contributed to a hasty retreat, and given the circumstances, we sadly decided not to plan a return trip. But something positive was gained here, hopefully making our future trips successful with the added knowledge and experience that were gained.

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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 throughout 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 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!

September 26, 2012March 31, 2020

The Elgin Springs Remedy

In 1850, Hiram Allen would discover Elgin Spring on his property near Vergennes, and knew he had found a way to turn a profit during the spring hotel craze of the antebellum age, a popular therapeutic treatment at that time.

He built an elegant Greek Revival addition onto his cottage style farmhouse and turned his property into a boardinghouse, located on the crest of sloping pasture lands, with a beautiful view fading into the rugged Adirondacks in the distance. The waters from the spring were peddled to patrons for their supposed medicinal properties, and among many things, were said to “purify blood”.

An analysis of Elgin Springs written in 1889 describes the springs to be so perfect in character that they were encouraged to be comparable to other famous springs across the globe.

“The analysis of Elgin Waters” – May 1st, 1889

But as with most health crazes, it came and went. The business prospered for 20 years until 1870 when it closed for good. After that, it became a private residence and changed hands until the 1970s. By then, the house had been deteriorating due to neglect as the years passed.

The town of Panton eventually condemned it, which is the reason for its abandonment. The current family who owns the property used the house for salvageable materials – selling off pieces of the house to people that wanted period details for their own house renovations. They have apparently been approached a few times by curious people wishing to purchase the property, but the family doesn’t wish to sell it.

Today, the people who used to sing their praises here have long been dust and bones, and a walk around the property is waltzing through memories, playing those sad songs like they were alive.

It was a white hot Vermont afternoon when I came across this wild abandoned house. Everything was in bloom, the plants wearing a brilliant green that was under competing blissful cerulean skies. The house sat pretty close to the wide shoulder of 22A, a thunderous roar of cars coming at a constant pace, traveling the long distance between Vergennes and Fair Haven. But we might have otherwise been in another world, the thick amount of foliage that had began to grow over the house provided ample invisibility from passersby. It was a magnificent house, it’s elegance still golden. Though what had been left behind was sparse, there was just enough for the imagination to latch onto.

Though it was once a hotel, it was the bones of a private residence I was exploring. The ruins of the interior retained all its original character, and though what had been left behind was sparse, there was just enough for the imagination to latch onto.

The whole place was practically being ensnared by vines and trees, adding a surrealistic quality to its decayed beauty. It was almost like mother nature was trying to demolish this place herself, saying its future was gone, using her roots and plants to pull this house down towards the earth, reclaiming what was once hers.

The springs that brought folks out this way over a decade ago were nowhere to be found either. Though I wasn’t that familiar with the property boundaries and was more concerned about getting caught trespassing out in the open.

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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.

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!

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September 15, 2012March 31, 2020

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

September 12, 2012March 31, 2020

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.

DSC_0897_pe — 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.

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

September 10, 2012March 31, 2020

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.

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.

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

September 4, 2012March 31, 2020

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.

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

September 2, 2012March 31, 2020

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.

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

August 14, 2012March 31, 2020

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.

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.

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.

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

August 9, 2012March 31, 2020

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 Today (Spring 2012):

“Floryville”

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

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.

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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.

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

August 8, 2012March 31, 2020

The Ruins of Tahawus

During the nineteenth century, the Adirondack Mountains began to be rummaged heavily for exploitable natural resources. The intrepid prospectors pushed farther north into a deep world of desolate woods, vast swamps and vertical slopes haunted by grueling winters. In 1826, industrialist Archibald McIintyre and his partner David Henderson, who were guided by an Indian of the Saint Francis Tribe, would discover iron ore where the headwaters of the iconic Hudson River spilled out of the mountains on their descent into New York Harbor, which lead to the creation of The Adirondack Iron Works to extract the precious commodity.

A settlement, which confusingly is either spelled as Adirondac or Adirondack, was formed around the mines and iron smelting operations. The village would grow to about sixteen dwellings, with a central multifarious building used as school, church and a meeting room.

The mines impacted the village to such an extent, that it became singularly lucrative, which meant that the first bank in the Adirondacks opened here, instead of surrounding towns that were easier to access and far more populated. But it’s previously mentioned remotely inauspicious location ensured life here was a constant struggle of endurance, and if it wasn’t for the seduction of fortune, no one would have decided to attempt to live here.

The iron ore here was at the time considered the best deposit in the country, but it’s far flung remoteness up numerous steep slopes all helped to run down the operations until they became prostrate ghosts.

In 1840, a road was finally hacked through the hills from the mines down to Port Henry, which was another emerging mining town and regional hub that boomed thanks to it’s location on Lake Champlain.

The Saratoga Railroad, which wanted to build a special spur line up to the blast furnaces, couldn’t construct up the vertical rises and was only able to extend the line to North Creek, a small hamlet “nearby” in the town of Newcomb. Because of this, the ore from Tahawus had to be hauled down to North Creek in tractors, or any other creative method they could devise.

The fact that Adirondac(k)’s existence was brief was owed to a continuous chaser of circumstances that kept running the town down – the most impacting being the impurities in the iron ore they were trying to withdraw – later discovered to be titanium dioxide – that killed the town. The equipment at the time simply wasn’t advanced enough to successfully process the stuff, despite spending a remarkable $43,000 on an impressive fort like stone blast furnace known as McIntyre, which they had hoped would improve efficiency and profits. The entire village was forsaken in 1857 when the Adirondac(k) Iron Works gave up.

A decade later, a hunting club had eyed the land and the deserted ruins and eventually bought up most of it. The club at the base of the highest peak in New York attracted such notable people as Vice President Theodore Roosevelt, who was on a hunting trip here when President McKinley was assassinated by gunshot in Buffalo. Staying in regional character, the hunting club changed names and identities quite a bit. The Preston Ponds Club came in 1876 for both hunters and fisherman. Just a year later, it became the Adirondack Club, and in 1989, renamed itself the Tahawus club, the titular name that most of the area wears today.

Times changed again and in 1940, a new mine opened, this time for the situationally ironic purpose of obtaining the titanium dioxide that had been responsible for previous failures in mining. World War 2 was in full swing, and because wars generally are hungry tempered affairs, anything that supported the war effort was in high demand, things like lead.

The National Lead Industries began mining along Sanford Lake which is southeast of the village, an area that would become known as The Lower Works. In 1943, the abandoned village was rebuilt for the new mine workers and was thematically renamed Tahawus. By 1945, Tahawus had 84 buildings, including some of the extant dwellings from the original town.

Before operations ceased in 1989, over 40 million tons of titanium oxide were extracted from the lower works, but the changing economy and bankruptcy would close the iron works. Once again, the wilderness was left to reclaim what was once its own, but this time no one tried to rebuild the town, leaving Tahawus to bury its faith in the rocky mountain soil.

From my experience, most ghost towns in the northeast are nothing more than overgrown cellar holes, but Tahawus still retains 10 of its original buildings from it’s 1940s reincarnation, one preserved home from 1845, and the imposing remnants of the McIntyre Blast Furnace with trees growing through the cracks in its stonework, all accessible by a stretch of nicely laid asphalt (until previously, it was a dirt road).

The Open Space Institute purchased Tahawus and surrounding forests in 2003 to preserve the unique area and formed the Tahawus Tract Project. Until 2006, the ghostly ruins of the Tahawus mines at Sanford Lake were also still existing, but have been since demolished, but the startling grey toned waste dunes still devour much of the lakeshore and Google satellite imagery of the place.

To find Tahawus’s rotting bones, they lay at the end of a long and desolate road which carves its way around swamps and streams, and follows the scars of an old railroad bed. Eventually, it comes to a rather abrupt dead end right in the center of town. And it is here where you can finally start picking at the pieces of this fascinating community.

Though Tahawus is a ghost town, because of it’s proximity on a roadway that leads to the junction of several popular hiking trails that take off towards cloud splitting Mount Marcy, it’s probably one of the least dead places in the Adirondacks. But on an interesting note; a passing hiker did tell me that he remembers bodies being found in Henderson Lake in the 70s that were the suspected victims of a local serial killer or madman. Or, so he told me.

Tahawus Today

The road to Tahawus was a long and lonely drive, passing through incredibly vast wilderness areas that a person could walk into and never reemerge from. I was actually a little surprised to find out that there was an actual road that lead right into town.

The road, aptly named “Tahawus Road” plunges deep into the wild, forwarded by what me and my friends refer to as the world’s most misleading “dead end” sign – as the road continues to cover ground for an unsuspected 7 miles before finally ending. As the forlorn stretch of asphalt climbed further into the woods, you could see the remnants of railroad lines that used to pass through, evidence of the areas industrial past. The rail beds had long been removed, leaving leveled banks that slice through an otherwise organic landscape. So, what did I expect to see as I entered Tahawus? I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t what greeted my hungry eyes.

Though the environs were squalid and eerie, admittedly, my first impression of this community was a bit underwhelming. The misleading photographs I found on the internet had set my expectations pretty high, but the unanticipated reality was humble and wrecked. What I had expected to be a large forgotten town reachable by trekking through thick forest and undergrowth, with somewhat of a sense of pre-coordinated directions, wasn’t. Instead, I could easily explore the place by hopping out of the car in a dirt parking lot cramped with other cars, hikers with backpacks, and one of my favorite jazz tunes wafting from the stereo.

Some of the surviving/deteriorating buildings have wasted away to the point beyond recognition, and others weren’t far behind. The roofs collapsed where they’re not entirely missing, forming mangled and wild shapes, and the dead weight slowly dragging many of the structures down the banks into the Hudson River.

Another interesting feature was that all of the buildings looked almost identical, with brown cedar shingles and a dark green forest trim.

A few buildings proved safe enough to enter. But the interiors were claustrophobic and vertigo, as each building became warped as they deteriorated at their own rate. There were no relics left behind amid the rubble, each room was an empty wooden shell. The ramshackle atmosphere was an enigma, masquerading the dangers by putting them in plain sight – your eyes straining continuously for a safe passage.

But it was also this carnival of chaos that’s been a few decades in the making that give me a strong feeling of awe that a great adventure always does. Every room was done in old fashioned wainscoting, each it’s own vibrant lead painted color which had been peeling and weathering for years. The sun poured through the cracks in the walls and kissed my fingertips as you begin to think about who might have lived here beforehand and how this new atmosphere has filled the places where they once used to stand.

Later during the dying days of Fall, I would make a return trip.

In the shadowy dales of the upland marshes, there were already pockets of snow, the fir trees bent over with a rather thick dusting. This was the first snow I’ve seen of the season. Though it was only around 1 in the afternoon, the harsh glow of the late Autumn sun made it feel otherwise, as the scraggly woodlands basked in sort of an offsetting golden glow.

I was surprised at just how bad Tahawus had become since my last journey here in the spring. Most of the remaining houses had either fallen over almost entirely, or were significantly worse off than before. The majority of the buildings I had wondered in months ago had become far worse for wear. Now, I had to take very careful precautions to set foot inside. As it was, my friend had already stepped on a nail which went through his boot. Not the best way to begin an adventure.

I can’t very well describe the feeling of exploring these modest dwellings, the interiors adorned with peeling walls shedding their lurid lead paint onto the dusty wooden floors as the late afternoon sunlight filtered inside as if keeping an eye on a sacred Adirondack shrine, the former world of man now home to nature and dust, finding peace with each other in subtle nuances. Any feelings of human habitation is a queer thought now, as time incinerates what that was to Tahawus.

At the alarming rate of Tahawus’s decay, it’s strange to think about the reality of the village becoming nothing more then a name on a map 3-5 years down the road, its buildings returning to dust that is scattered to the Adirondack winds.

But despite its shocking rate of deterioration from when I first visited only 3 years ago, and it’s crowds, it still remains one of my favorite places in upstate New York, which may or may not entirely be due to nostalgia.

The Old McIntyre Blast Furnace site

Tahawus Town

MacNaughton Cottage (1845). This was the house that Vice President Theodore Roosevelt stayed in during his hike to Mount Marcy when he received news of President William McKinley being close to death after being shot in Buffalo, and is the only "restored" building in Tawahus. — MacNaughton Cottage (1845). This was the house that Vice President Theodore Roosevelt stayed in during his hike to Mount Marcy when he received news of President William McKinley being close to death after being shot in Buffalo, and is the only “restored” building in Tawahus, as well as the first building you see in town.

Links:

If you’re interested in Tahawus, The Adirondack Park Agency published a great article on it.

Tahawus on Wikipedia

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