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.
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!
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, 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.
To all of my 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!
In the years of my adolescence, I would stumble upon this abandoned summer camp, existing in the summer woods and melancholy haze.
The skies were promising fury, even through the thick canopy over head. But I was curious. The property had long grown wild, the wooden cabins were almost indistinguishable amongst the thick foliage and colors of the forest. But through the tangled wall of young hardwood trees, a brown sign with birch tree legs was crookedly standing, establishing an identity to this intriguing place – the hand painted letters were still legible after years of fading. “Bear Mountain Literary Athletic Music and Art Club LTD” was the official name of the collection of ruins, but the only things living around here didn’t want to talk.
Stepping off the road and into a weedy clearing, the wet grass soaking the bottoms of my jeans, I began to get a better picture at the camp. A few small wooden cabins lay scattered around a central area, where the woods extended far back dark and deep. Maybe it’s my love for anything old, rustic and mysterious that drew me to fall in love with this place, and the charm of its decay. The cabins were done in wood paneling, with old farm house style windows, all were brilliantly aging as the years passed on.
Inside one of the cabins revealed old plaster walls, only beginning to show signs of water damage. There were bunk beds still outfitted with down pillows and musty blankets and a small woodstove in the corner. Through the dim light that entered through a nearby window, the swirling dust seemed to become swallowed by the shadows. And there was a distinct musty smell that you’d expect an old cabin to inhabit, a smell that is ironically pleasant and nostalgic – almost as if to say “sorrow isn’t suppose to be here”
Near one of the old cabins, almost lost in the weeds, was an original water pump that no doubt supplied the camp with fresh mountain water. And a few pulls to the old pump – accompanied by some agonizing groans proved that it still worked, as freezing water poured at my feet.
Along the road in the deadfall of hardwood trees sat the worst part of the camp, a long and awkward rectangular building that was so ramshackle that I opted not to venture inside. Because it had no foundation, the entire building looked like it could be toppled with a good push, turning it into a firewood pile. It once had a front porch that ran along the entire backside of the building, the side that faced the camp, but it had long collapsed, its shingled roof mangled in a bed of weeds and dead lupines. Inside fared no better. The floor had disintegrated, the tall grass coming in. An old refrigerator and cast iron stove sat in a corner of a dark room, toppled on their sides. Broken glass and rusted nails were everywhere.
So, what was this place? How old was it? And when did it close? I had no answers, but I had a few suspicions. I knew it probably wasn’t affiliated with the Green Mountain Club or the CCC, so it had to be a private operation. The entire property looked dated, probably going back to the 1930s I guessed. But I was stumped.
I couldn’t explain what I was feeling as I stood on that wooded mountain side that dull afternoon, as I felt a change coming up as the air cooled down. At one time this camp probably provided cherished memories to several kids who sought the wisdom and promises of the mountains, but today, it looked like the good times were on me – and the camp would still sing its Shangri-La songs.
Years later, I would venture back to photograph it, and to my surprise, there was evidence of human presence now. The long ramshackle building that once lay near the roadside had been torn down, and the weedy clearing had been mowed. Though I was selfishly disappointed, I was also relieved that there were some cabins still standing that I could photograph. I truly cherish the accolades of discovering and photographing these places – allowing them to awaken parts of me that were formerly in hibernation underneath the wistful silence of the forest.
A year later, I would make a return trip, and found that the old camp was finally in the process of renovation. One of the cabins had already been fixed up and a sand volleyball court was built in the middle of the clearing. And as luck would have it, I got a chance to meet the new owners, 2 friendly brothers from New Jersey. They bought the camp with the vision of carrying their dream of owning a summer retreat in Vermont deep into the mountains. They were nice guys, and selflessly took time from doing yard work to talk to me. They knew nothing of the camp’s history, but were able to offer a little bit of incite. They were told that the camp was built sometime in the late 30s or early 40s, and served as a summer camp for children. They weren’t sure when it closed, but one of them guessed the late 80s. Like many abandoned properties I’ve explored, the story was an old one. The camp eventually closed down due to shifting trends. In short, it became unpopular overtime. The cabins were too rotted to keep standing, so it made more sense to tear them down. But they kept one, and had already done extensive renovations on it, including new cedar shingling, windows and new front door. It looked great, and I couldn’t help but be a little jealous of them.
Feeling satisfied, I thanked them for their time. I’m glad someone else can now enjoy the property, but selfishly, I still wish it was the same fascinating and forgotten place I had stumbled upon years ago, just aching for me to discover its secrets.
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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!
It was a hazy July afternoon and the sun was shining of the hood of my friend’s Dodge as we parked. Within minutes, I was sweating through my t-shirt. In front of me was the century and a half old, abandoned brick academy that I had been waiting for about a year to get inside of. And it looked like I wasn’t the only visitor. The lawn was filled with people wearing hardhats, trailers, and extension cords. I started to feel awkward, standing by the truck, trying to not make eye contact with the people who were making it with me.
Thankfully, Chance Benedict pulled into the parking lot, turning down my increasing feeling of being out of place. Chance is the principal of the Bakersfield school district, and through about a years worth of email back and forths, was kind enough to open up the building for me and give me a guided tour.
Brigham Academy is in the tiny 4-way intersection town of Bakersfield, halfway between “the dairy capital of the world” – Enosburg Falls, and the ski village of Jeffersonville. I discovered the academy by accident when I was passing along Bakersfield’s main drag, which is state route 108, and saw the dignified brick edifice that was more visible in mud season when the line of sight is increased thanks to the bare trees. Driving down relevantly named academy lane, I got a closer look at the place, and realized that it was abandoned – the distinctive brick building in a state of slow burning decay.
Some of the windows were broken, the white painted front doors are showing signs of gray decay and the brickwork is beginning to crack, loosen and tumble in a few places. The front steps have been removed in some areas and the all the doors are padlocked closed. Geometry draws your eyes up to the central clock tower above your head, it’s unique wooden face frozen the exact time it ceased functionality years ago.
This is Brigham Academy. Its impressive architecture alludes to the equally impressive gentleman its existence was made possible by; Peter Bent Brigham. Born in Bakersfield in 1807, Brigham was a man who dedicated his life to defying the one thing that plagued him as a kid; poverty. He was forced to drop out of school in his early teenage years and find work to support his family after the death of his father. But he worked hard, and through perseverance and an amiable personality, he would become a prominent figure later in life and eventually a self-made millionaire. In between, he made a name for himself by becoming a businessman, restaurateur, real estate trader, the director of Massachusetts’s Fitchburg Railroad (the railroad that runs through the dark depths of the legend conjuring Hoosac Tunnel), the founder of the Brigham Hospital in Boston (a hospital that would become connected with Harvard), and eventually and most relevant to this post, a self-titled academy in Bakersfield. That’s quite the accomplishment list. Some days, I can barely check my email.
Because Brigham never had the chance to receive a higher education in his life, he grew up bitter about it. Now with his sizable fortune, he wanted to ensure that the children of Bakersfield would have the opportunities he never had, and donated a grand sum of $40,000 to the town of Bakersfield; $10,000 towards the building and funding of the newly established academy named in his honor.
But educational needs changed towards a movement towards all-inclusive public schooling, and enrollment dropped and finances dwindled. Eventually, the academy couldn’t afford to stay open, and in 1966, it began its function as the local public high school and deteriorated rapidly into the mid 80s, when the state of Vermont decided they didn’t want to add a lesson on the terrors of building collapses to the high school curriculum, and closed it.
Building the academy was one thing, but deciding what to do with it, especially without the cash to do such things is another puzzlement. While local opinions differentiate, the only thing that everyone can seem to agree on is that they all want the place to exist in the Bakersfield of the future.
Suggestions have been tossed around to convert the academy into a new home for the town offices or an expansion for the Bakersfield Elementary School – but the building’s deterioration and outdated amenities created setbacks of the financial kind, leaving the academy in a state of momentarily untouchable rotting limbo.
Brigham Academy is kind of a big (silent) deal to me. My abandoned hometown creamery was the first place I ever explored, thanks to its convenience, and Hyde Manor was a flicker that burned my desires, but the academy was the first place I sought out to explore legally, with me going through the rounds of contact, permission and scheduling. It happened during a change in my life, after I had left college, where I just didn’t dig my old scene anymore, and began to drift away towards exploration.
Chance fiddled with the padlock on the front doors and as they swung open, an immediate change in atmosphere was noticed. The sultry July day outside gave way to a more dank and musty smell of the academy’s interior. The two of us then stepped up a three-foot brick rise up onto the first floor. The front stairs had to be removed because structural and foundation issues had eroded them to a dangerous point of potential lawsuit-ness.
I came to the academy with no expectations, and my first impression pleasantly reassured me that it was worth the persistence. The massive building contained much original details with exceedingly cluttered halls and lurid pastel colored walls and their crumbling lead painted remains blazed in summer heat. To my right, there was a door, which I decided would be my first area I would venture too. I slipped through and discovered a fantastic feature of the school, a unique sunken basketball court from 1904, the tired wooden floors were horribly warped and crooked, with the thin and fading court lines still visible from the wraparound second-floor mezzanine lined with windows protected by lattice/mesh screens above, just in case of wayward basketballs or rowdy spectators.
The basement area, which contained the locker rooms was full of mold and pitch black due to no window access or working electricity. The dank and dark ambiance was definitely creepy down there. The principle joked that he would wait for me at the top of the stairs.
There is apparently a spook story about this particular part of the academy, that involves disembodied sounds of basketball games in play in the empty court that manifest themselves at any time of the day or night. A janitor even reported seeing a basketball bounce itself across the court! In other parts of the building, furniture is said to rearrange itself, cold air wafts from nowhere, and doors open by themselves. What was going on here? Years ago, a visiting psychic claimed that the old building was full of playful native American spirits who were behind all the shenanigans.
The first floor contained some interesting relics, and was packed full of furniture and piles of years of accumulated trash which spanned over 100 years to the more recent. Classrooms had original chalkboards in them that still had chalk scribings on their surfaces from when the school was still functional. I was intrigued when I had Bakersfield residents send me messages telling me they recognized their own names, or recalled when a friend wrote something on the board.
The top floor contained an enormous theater area, with wooden stage and dull green painted walls that undulated as you walked by. The wooden floors creaked and made high lonesome sounds that filled the large space as my boots clomped down. Behind the theater sat a cluttered room of disused drama props in disarray and dust that added somewhat of a melancholic feel to the place that slipped under your skin.
The rest of the time capsule like building was quite gorgeous and we spent two hours shooting and listening to Chance’s great stories about the academy and its history. Some of the classrooms upstairs were more modernized in the 60s, and brandished ugly drop down ceilings that were in various progress of disintegration and ugly florescent lights. One room had a weird mural of a clown painted on a wall that eerily gazed with a smug yet complacent stare over the room. Original wooden desks that were awkward and rigid still sat in almost perfect rows in front of a chalkboard, their surfaces warped with years of skin oil and use, with your archetypal student graffiti carved into their surfaces.
Wondering around the academy was proving to be more oppressively hot than the outside air somehow, and by now, I was drenched in sweat that was beginning to sting my eyes.
But the best was yet to come. Hidden in a backroom behind the auditorium was a steep and narrow staircase typical of old buildings that ascended through the ceiling, to a heavy wooden trapdoor and up into the clock tower. The original bell still was perched on the rafters, covered with years of dust – the hot summer heat baked the small space.
Because of time constrictions, we only stayed about an hour inside, not nearly long enough. There was so much to see, and so little time to see it. But I felt special, and quite humbled that I was granted permission to photograph such a place, and that to my knowledge, little others have had the chance to see the inside in a few decades.
It’s a real shame that Brigham Academy is being left to fade into memory. It’s a great old building that can offer so much potential, especially in a disposable era America where new buildings are built cheaply with faux aesthetic added to disguise their overall banality. If anything, we should be preserving more Brigham Academy’s across the country.
But sadly, to save the academy, you need a vision, and you need money. So far, no such luck. Does Brigham Academy sing songs of doom or redemption? Sadly, the last memory many people of Bakersfield might have of Brigham Academy is seeing it be demolished.
An old postcard of Brigham Academy:
Brigham Academy Today (April 2015)
Summer 2012
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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!
Maybe my love of exploration transitioned into an obsession here, at Hyde Manor. The brooding wooden dinosaur of a building holds a lot of memories for me, and planted the seeds of me starting this blog years ago. To be honest, I may never have perused photography or exploring as seriously if it weren’t for my time here.
The manor was opened in 1865 by James Hyde, and after its completion, it was considered to be one of the most esteemed getaways in New England.
And now it all lies in ruins, sitting in the Sudbury woods with the hum of the highway swallowing whatever sad songs the hotel sings. I first saw the building as a wide eyed 12 year old, passing it en route to a destination long forgotten, but Hyde Manor forever burned itself into memory. I knew that day that I wanted to come back and explore it, to discover whatever wondrous secrets lay inside. And several years later, I got my chance.
Peering up at this brooding structure behind the maples that separate sun from shadows offers no insight to what it used to be. Its windows are broken, tattered curtains hang in strips through the vacant panes. The massive front tower, a signature architectural feature of this grand structure, is dangerously lopsided and looks like it may soon tumble down onto the tall grass you stand in. The once grand New England veranda with rows of wooden rocking chairs have long wasted away into weedy piles of debris. There are no signs, no historical markers, no identity.
So, what was this place? And what happened here? Though you can’t tell by looking at it, this is all that remains of Hyde Manor, a once grand antebellum hotel in the Vermont countryside, now a collection of rotting bones that are slowly turning to dust upon the ground it sits on.
But even in decay, Hyde Manor still retains its elegance. You don’t even have to question that this place was once magnificent. But why was it left to waste away? To get a good idea of what happened, you need to know a little about its past. And through extensive research online, I was able to get a basic idea of the picture.
Hyde Manor’s origins began as something much more humble and can be traced back to around 1798, as a small stagecoach stop known as Mills Tavern, back when the busy state route out front was a muddy and arduous stage road. In 1801, Pitt Hyde bought the tavern and 47 surrounding acres.
The tavern was eventually passed down to Pitt Hyde’s son, James. Overtime, James began holding all night Yankee balls at the tavern which turned out to be a huge success and developed a loyal customer base, as well as ensuring landmark status. As time passed, James wanted to do more than run a tavern, and decided to expand. Eventually, he would open Hyde’s Hotel.
His timing was impeccable, as a train station and a new canal in nearby Whitehall, New York soon made the region more accessible to wealthy tourists. Hyde’s property also had a vogue tourism magnet; mountain springs, which at the time were thought to possess healing properties that could cure the sick and the mentally ill. If your business advertised these moot claims – you were almost guaranteed to draw crowds. Hyde took advantage of these situations and began marketing his hotel as a destination, especially for those living in the dirty urban metropolises of the northeast looking for respite and peace of mind in bucolic Vermont.
When a fire destroyed the original building in 1862, the Hyde’s decided to rebuild. But this time, James was riding on the silver tides of great expectations and envisioned something grander – a showpiece! Something to secure the Hyde family legacy. By 1865, the stately Italianate building that still stands today was erected with no expenses spared. Hyde’s bravado paid off. The resort’s popularity only continued to grow in the antebellum years.
By the turn of the century, the hotel was passed down to James’ son Arunah, or “A.W.,” Hyde, and he began to expand the property once more. Now, the name was officially changed to Hyde Manor.
I was fortunate enough to be given a scanned copy of an original 1901 promotional booklet on Hyde Manor. It’s old photos speaking through the antebellum haze, and gave me a startling impression of what it used to be like.
The capacity was advertised as 250 guests, and the buildings were state of the art in terms of luxury of the day. They were gas heated, with wide hallways containing public and private parlors. Many guest rooms were equipped with private baths, electric buzzers for communication purposes, and fire escapes and round the clock watchman, just in case. People looking for more intimate accommodations could stay in one of the cottages or farmhouses around the property, a few which are still standing today.
The property and its many buildings were connected by a series of broad piazzas, lined with the classic New England postcarded hotel image of wooden rocking chairs arranged in symmetrically neat rows, offering wide views of sloping lawns which were once shaded by Maples and Elms, looked out over the distant silhouettes of the Adirondacks. At night, the grand piazzas were the perfect place to take in the soft summer air. There was a private boathouse on nearby Lake Hortonia, with complimentary stagecoach service, as well as a private lake sitting at the top of the hill behind the manor, Lake Hinkum, which was stocked with trout for the fisherman.
The mountain springs which flowed on the property contained iron and sulfur, and were bottled for the guests’ enjoyment. There was even a spring house connected to the property by a wide plank deck, where guests could obtain it’s bottled water, free of charge.
The brochure boasted the superlative “every attraction has been given to the amusement of life of Hyde Manor”, and from what I was able to research, they weren’t overselling themselves. Other attractions include a casino, equipped with a stage for live performances. There was a billiards room where men could retire with a cigar and a drink at the end of the day. There was also a dark room for photographers, and 2 bowling alleys equipped with Narraganset Standard alleys – now completely buried underneath unused lumber and storage. A music hall could apparently seat 300 people. The hotel had mail service and a telegraph office, a 200-acre golf course across the road, a ski hill in the winter (at the golf course) tennis courts, baseball diamonds, and shuffleboard courts.
Hyde Manor became such a well-known destination that old maps began printing the name Hyde Manor on them, as if it were the town itself, and sometimes, the town of Sudbury wouldn’t even be included. Even until a few years ago, I recall atlases including Hyde Manor on the map.
A brief conversation with the owner on the front lawn uncovered the enigma of Hyde Manor’s post-mortem. When the World War 2 era rolled in, automobile and airplane travel began increasing rapidly, bringing independence and broadening traveling options. The Hyde’s assumed this would be great for business, but ironically, that turned out to be exactly what killed the hotel. Now that people could come and go more freely, it made long stays in one place unnecessary. Soon, a new icon of Americana made its début, chain hotels. Hotels like Holiday Inns and Howard Johnsons, which began appearing in the 1950s, became instantly popular, and travelers were all about modern conveniences. Hyde Manor was now seen as out of date.
The Hyde’s sold the property in 1962, and in the last years of its former life, the manor operated as a resort called “The Top of The Seasons”. Unfortunately, the hotel suffered a slow and painful death until 1970 when it closed its doors for good. According to a few who were kind enough to share their memories, around the time of its closing, they recalled the hotel being a little dingy and dirty.
The family couldn’t afford to fix it up, and can’t afford to tear it down. Over time, maintenance became a bill they couldn’t afford, and the state of Vermont barred any attempts at resurrecting the property due to defeating changes in zoning and building code regulations. Hyde Manor still has lead paint and asbestos and now, has deteriorated to such an extent that it is impossible to save.
Years of abandonment and neglect have really worn out the old hotel. Most of the smaller buildings that surrounded the manor have almost completely fallen over, and the main house itself is in an extremely sorry state. Mother nature is slowly reclaiming what was once hers, as trees and vines ensnare the hotel more with every year. It’s a vision that would make misery so proud.
Ever since my first visit, I’ve been coming back. During this time, I’ve witnessed it waste away in front of me. Narrow hallways, fleeting shadows, guestrooms painted in vibrant pallets have all faded. Admittedly, all my visits to Hyde Manor have left me surprised. While at first, I pictured this grand Vermont resort with airy and spacious rooms done in handmade craftsmanship, I was instead greeted with claustrophobia and a rambling layout that was more like a fun house than a grand hotel. All of the intoxicating features that my scanned brochure all advertised (quite successfully) were untraceable, much to my disappointment. There was no long narrow amusement hall, no bowling alley, no barber shop, no springs house. But, the springs, which are much older than the manor, can still be found alongside the back of the property in a ravine wild with scrub and low growth.
Walking through dark and silent hallways as my feet crunched over plaster dust created an atmosphere that would feel more at home in a dream I once had. The smell of mold, rot and stale air was nauseating. Its cosmetic wounds are destructive. Where rain and snow have infiltrated through the broken ceiling, the rot is spreading rapidly like blood veins up the walls. What hasn’t collapsed yet has mercifully adapted the colors of deterioration into the already striking palette of its walls, the foul smells eagerly communicating with passing visitors. But this show is just beginning. Doors hang off their hinges, dressers fall through weak floors and peeling wallpaper provides makeshift curtains for shifting walls. And it will only get better.
Inside, it’s hard not to feel humbled here. You’re walking around the ruins of the grand dream of someone you’ve never met, now left for you to discover and make your own.
You want to make a place like Hyde Manor your own, it practically invites it. To take pictures, to explore, to be inspired. It’s an irresistible impulse. And that’s what I live for. While the chaotic world outside somehow still exists, inside these forsaken locations is another world entirely that exists in perpetual haze, something you can take with you or leave behind. But while urban explorers like myself love this feeling, others hate it. Property owners, police officers and concerned neighbors who hate the attention, who hate how we wallow in their despairs, picking at the scars. And if you get hurt inside, there are chances your isolation may be your own demise.
The building has sadly aged into such a dangerous state of decrepitude now that passage inside is unsafe, only the brave or wild-hearted make their entry through a broken window to communicate with its valiant ghosts that salivate from their tongues as you make your way through the wreckage. Hyde Manor grew up lonesome and one of a kind, and it seems that in death, the same can be said. Its cherished memories of former guests that have long turned into dust and forsaken artifacts underneath crumbling ceilings that won’t be saving its soul anymore.
Hyde Manor in its heyday:
From the Hyde Manor promotional booklet, 1901
A signed A. W. Hyde letter from Hyde manor 1886 – courtesy of Joel VanPatten, who kindly sent me a scan via email.
Hyde Manor today
The images below were taken over my various visits to Hyde Manor, ranging roughly from 2009, to 2016. Some photos have never been posted before, others have been re-edited. Some of these photos were taken way back in my past life, when I was learning how to use a camera, and coming to a realization that I wanted to become the person I am today, and therefore may not be my best quality as my recent posts, but the ones I’ve uploaded are passable in my opinion – and more importantly to me – help tell a story. Hope you enjoy.
The last standing wall of the former restaurant, which was once raved about in travel guidebooks. In 1850, Benson Lossing exclaimed in The Field Guide to the American Revolution, that “a table equaled to Hyde’s” has become a proverbial expression of praise among tourists, for it is his justifiable boast that he spreads the choicest repasts that are given between Montréal and New Orleans. ” The restaurant was one of the first parts of the manor to collapse and is now a twisted indistinguishable pile of rotten building materials.
This section of the hotel was known as “The Terrace Suites”, an out building behind the main house with rooms that featured entrances on an outdoor terrace area – the focal point being a stone adorned fountain area.
The imprint of the old fountain, with its turquoise painted containment pool still detectable through dead leaves.
The former men’s cigar lounge, identified by it’s 8 sided structure and dramatic peaked roof, is one of the very few restored buildings on the property.
This has to be one of my favorite pictures I’ve taken. In 2011, a massive crack was heard bellowing through the Sudbury woods, followed by a hideous collapse that startled wildlife and neighboring residences. When the dust settled, the pieces of the puzzle were revealed. Part of Hyde Manor’s second floor had finally given way, due to years of water damage and rot. When that gave, the upper floors tumbled down with it, creating a huge hole in the front of the building – a landscape of vibrant exposed wallpapers and hanging doors. This picture was taken from the first floor, through the chunk of a former doorway of a guest room that had settled near the staircase. Through the door, it gives you a bizarre perspective of the 2nd and 3rd floors, and the individual guest rooms (or what’s left of them)
Hyde Manor, October 2016
This really choked me up.
Hyde Manor Winter 2018
I had received an email from my good friend and fellow writer Bill Alexander of Vermont.com, asking me if I knew Hyde Manor had collapsed. After a few seconds of bewilderment, I put down my coffee, texted a friend, and the next day I was traveling down into Vermont’s beautiful lake region that was gloomy and gray that particular day.
Bill wasn’t kidding – another huge chunk of the manor had collapsed. I wasn’t there 7 minutes when a car with red plates pulled up next to me. The owner, who still lives in the old bowling alley on the property, had seen the car I was in come to a stop out in front on the road and immediately called the cops. The power that be, though, was an incredibly amicable fellow. He smiled, we chatted, he told me that I wasn’t doing anything wrong (I wasn’t on her property, I was on the shoulder of the road), and that the big collapse happened just last night. “Just don’t go anywhere near the building” he warned with concern in his voice.
He didn’t have to tell me that. Another friend, explorer, and photographer who, unlike me, isn’t at all bothered by temperatures in the -40 variety, said he ran into a Catamount (that’s Vermont parlance for mountain lion) inside the old hotel.
Some introductions; that great octagonal building used to be the men’s cigar and billiards room, now restored. The long narrow building to the right hidden by the trees is the old bowling alley – one of the oldest in the country. The original Narragansett and Brunswick hardware is all still there – but according to another friend who had a brief conversation with the owner, it’s all buried underneath lumber and junk.The old clubhouse. Hyde Manor was once home to one of the first 9 hole golf courses in the country when the activity was in its infancy. Today, the old course just looks like any other overgrown field along this busy VT state route down towards Bomoseen. I loved the wild organic shapes this, uh, structure, was making in its transformation.
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