I think this is one of the first Vermont oddities most Chittenden County denizens are introduced to, because of its easy to find location in a slowly gentrifying neighborhood. I lived in Burlington’s cool south end district for a few years before I moved onto other apartments, which I’m now regretting.
Sometimes the best adventures are in your own backyard. Or at least they can keep the doldrums away. One of my favorite ways to spend my days in Burlington was to go scouting. For what? That totally depended on wherever I walked with my camera. Thankfully, Burlington is a very cool and eclectic city.
Down on Flynn Avenue, you can’t avoid spotting the world’s largest tower of filing cabinets in a weedy field near Switchback Brewery. But…why?
These seemingly random filing cabinets were actually very much intentional. The strange tower was built in 2002 by local artist Bren Alvarez as an art project, and a silent jab at bureaucracy. It stands in the path of the ill-fated “Southern Connector“, an interstate highway that was never built – the blighted urban planning failure actually sits a block south, and was put on indefinite hiatus because of a swampy, polluted barge canal just a bit north. There are 38 drawers, each represents the number of years of paperwork accumulated by the project when the thing was fabricated.
But that’s not all this peculiar monument tells you. All over its rusting structure are urban hieroglyphics – hinting at local taggers and mysterious visitors who pass by and leave their marks in their own way. Names, pseudonyms and a rather cool map of Burlington are just a few of the things you can find etched onto the sides. Local lore has it that at the very top drawer, that lies slightly open, lies a hidden geocache – or at least some sort of mysterious object stashed up there, waiting for someone to see. But I couldn’t confirm is that was true or not. There definitely isn’t an official geocache listed on the website here.
—————————————————————————————————————————————–
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. Seriously, even the small cost equivalent to a gas station cup of coffee would help greatly!
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!
Perhaps no other haunted location in Vermont is as fabled as Emily’s Bridge, and it’s arguable that because it’s a covered bridge, this storied construction turned celebrity is distinctively a Vermont monstrosity. Look in any book of ghost stories and local lore written in the New England area, and Emily’s Bridge is almost sure to be included.
Growing up, I heard the legends of Emily’s Bridge, as most kids did. And as a curious teenager, I made a midnight expedition to the bridge as many other teenagers did, all hoping to catch a glimpse of Emily’s ghost and perhaps, witness her sorrow and fury firsthand. But the only monstrous thing we saw were other disrespectful teenagers in large numbers, partying and drinking at the bridge. My Emily’s Bridge interest died almost as soon as it started.
To put things in perspective here, let’s start off with the legend that started it all. Emily’s Bridge actually has an official name; The Gold Brook Bridge, but most Vermonters forgo that for it’s more popular nickname.
At first glance, this rustic and unremarkable covered bridge looks like the myriad of other similar bridges found in Vermont and New England, it certainly doesn’t look “haunted”. Built in 1844, this simplistic, one lane 50-foot span is the oldest covered bridge in the country. It’s builder, John N. Smith of nearby Moscow, an obscure hamlet within the town of Stowe, bragged that it would last forever. Perhaps he was right. But this bridge is infamous for its resident ghost rather than its historical and structural accomplishments.
So who is Emily, and why does she haunt the bridge? That seems to remain a mystery because no one is quite sure of her identity. The most commonly told story is that Emily was a young Stowe woman in the 1800s who fell in love with a man who for reasons unknown, her family disproved of. Her family forbid her to marry. In retaliation, the two love struck teenagers decided to elope on The Gold Brook Bridge at midnight.
Emily made it to the bridge and waited. The appointed hour came and went, and the man never showed up. She was devastated. She couldn’t go back home, everyone would find out what happened, and she would be humiliated as well as heartbroken. Seeing no other way out, she hanged herself from a rafter on the bridge. Now in spirit form, her bridge haunting occurrence apparently decides to bring terror and tomfoolery to certain folks who pass through the bridge. She’s still waiting for her long-departed lover, getting angrier and more despaired by the year.
Emily’s Bridge seems to be a sore subject for many Stowe residents, and quite honestly, I couldn’t think of many towns that a haunted covered bridge could be more out of place in.
Stowe is a small town that was rolled over by wealthy out of staters (known by Vermonters as “flatlanders”), because of it’s reputable ski resort on the lofty slopes of Mount Mansfield – Vermont’s tallest elevation.
The road that leads up to the resort is state route 108, which is lined with pricey alpine themed hotels and tourist attractions, before wedging through Smugglers’ Notch, a rocky mountain pass with a 200 year old history of titular smugglers, and more recently, tractor trailers and tour buses getting stuck up on the narrow switchbacked road despite the tons of signs telling larger vehicles not to drive there.
While Stowe likes the attention gained with the tourism industry, Emily’s Bridge draws the sort of attention many residents could do without. But, the two are hopelessly tangled up in one another.
That being said, I had already decided not to include the story of Emily’s Bridge in this blog. I didn’t want to write about the same Vermont stories that I found were in almost every book on weird things Vermont. I wanted to be different. But that was until I found myself having coffee with author, folklorist and friend Joseph Citro.
As par usual, our conversation turned to the bizarre very quickly. As the waitress came over and topped off our coffee, the steam instantly fogging my glasses, Joe looked at me with musing eyes. “Chad, you know the story of Emily’s Bridge, right?” He sort of laughed at his own question after he had asked it. Of course I had.
“Yeah Joe, hasn’t everyone?” I returned, snickering myself. “Ok, but do you know the real story behind Emily’s Bridge?” I took a sip of my coffee and looked at him, my attention grabbed.
This is where the story got good, in my own opinion. As it turns out, not only was Vermont’s most infamous ghost story a well-spun yarn, but he happened to know the woman who created the story. When all was said and done, I found the real story of Emily’s Bridge far better than the conventional one.
The story of Emily’s Bridge doesn’t go back to the 1800s, but rather much more recently, in the 1970s. A woman by the name of Nancy Wolfe Stead claimed that she was the one who created the story of Emily to scare local youth. There was a swimming hole somewhere near Stowe and Morrisville. She remembers making up the story of the bridge to amuse the kids. At the time, there was a huge surge in the occult and the paranormal in the flypaper that is popular culture, especially with films like The Exorcist that had recently debuted. She was also the one who came up with the name Emily.
Curiously enough, a little digging uncovered that no information about any Emily has been found prior to 1970. What Nancy probably didn’t expect however, was her story to grow in popularity. It soon spread far beyond the limits of Stowe. It is quite possible that the story of Emily’s Bridge became fixed in paranormal concrete when a woman named Valerie Welch started “Stowe Tours” and the bridge, and Emily, became part of the presentation.
I reached out to the Stowe Historical Society for answers, to see if they could offer anymore incite into Emily’s Bridge and the story behind it. A few days later, I received a friendly reply from a woman named Barbara Barawand. Now, the pieces of this complicated urban myth were slowly coming together.
Interestingly enough, there are no records of anyone named Emily dying on the Gold Brook Bridge. But, a tragedy did take place there. It happened around 1920 when a little girl fell off the bridge and died when her skull was dashed off the boulders below. There are reports from people who have had tea with an elderly woman who lives near the bridge, and she remembers when the accident on the Gold Brook Bridge happened. She was about 10 at the time.
To make things more interesting, the Gold Brook Bridge may not even be the “real” Emily’s Bridge. There used to be another covered bridge just down the road near the Nichols Farm near Route 100, until it burned down in 1932 and was replaced by the current concrete span still in use today. There were brief records of a death happening on the old covered bridge, but the details were lost with time. Could this have been the real Emily’s Bridge? Barbara suggests that if there is a ghost, it is a possibility that after the bridge burned down, the ghost sought refuge upstream in the Gold Brook Bridge, which is now Stowe’s last remaining covered bridge. Or maybe, the legend was simply transplanted to the other bridge.
It seems the story is just that, and the legendary bridge which has burned itself into memory of many isn’t the location it is most identified with. But there is more to this story. Reports claiming Emily’s Bridge was haunted didn’t manifest themselves into local folklore until around 1948, many years after the aforementioned suicide of Emily. The bridge became known as “the haunted bridge” but the story of Emily didn’t exist. So if the bridge had a reputation then, perhaps visitors were getting frightened by something entirely different? If so, what was it?
In addition to my growing research, I found that there are also various accounts of why Emily’s ghost haunts the bridge. In no particular order:
(1.) She hanged herself after her boyfriend failed to show up for a midnight rendezvous
(2.) On the day of her marriage she was trampled to death by runaway horses
(3.) She was on her way to her wedding, her horse bolted, threw her out of the wagon (or off its back) and she fell to her death on the rocks below the bridge
(4.) Emily was fat, unattractive, middle aged and pregnant. Her boyfriend jumped off the bridge and died. Later Emily had twins who soon died. Brokenhearted Emily threw herself off the bridge and died.
(5.) Her boyfriend fell in love with another girl, and never showed up at the bridge, humiliating her.
(6.) After Emily began dating her lover, she became pregnant. Excited to break the news, she told him to meet her at the bridge. But he didn’t take it the way she expected, and was furious. Emily was humiliated and broken hearted, and venomously told him that if he left her, than she would tell everyone in town. At her threat, he acted hastily, and murdered her on the bridge to silence her forever. Some stories say he left town, and other stories say his guilty conscience got the better of him and he committed suicide.
But if this is the case, there would have had to be an eye witness who saw these events unfold on the bridge, or how would these details be known? As far as I know, there were no witnesses and no reports were ever made of a murder on the bridge.
And perhaps there are even more stories then that. I’m sure there are, but no one can find any real history to back any of this up, so the tales will continue to morph.
And if this wasn’t enough to ponder, I also want to bring another question into the light. If Emily did in fact commit suicide on the bridge, how would she have done so? The rafters of the bridge are a good height from the wooden planked floor. She would have had to make somewhat of an effort to climb onto one. And if she did, wouldn’t that have meant that she brought rope with her to do the job? To my knowledge, there aren’t all that many discarded coils of rope found near the covered bridge…
So, with all of this new information, how can all of the claims of paranormal activity that supposedly happen on the bridge be justified? Remember, the legend of Emily was proven to be nothing more than a hoax.
Knowing that information really makes me curious however. What could possibly account for all of people who have all claimed to have run-ins with Emily on the bridge? All of these encounters that have been reported are various, and range from benign to terrifying.
The most common occurrence are photos taken by tourists that fail to come out, or perhaps the photographer will notice that the pictures include puzzling, blurry blemishes that weren’t present when the photo was taken. Some even have photos that are said to include the ghostly image of a girl standing in front of the bridge who was not there at the time of the photo. Others have seen inexplicable things like flashing white lights with no traceable source. Others hear a disembodied voice coming from nowhere, uttering words that can’t be understood. But in the rare occasion the voice can be understood, it has been said it sounds like a woman crying for help.
Some occurrences are more aggressive, perhaps even malevolent. Hats are whisked away on windless days. Temperatures in the bridge are known to be inexplicably warmer or colder then the temperature outside. One famous tale includes one man witnessing his windshield fog up on its own, and hand prints appearing on the windshield, but no one was around to make the prints. Encounters get far more violent. In the old days, horses crossing the bridge would unaccountably bolt in fear as phantom bloody gashes would appear on their bodies that were possibly left by ghostly nails. When horse traffic was replaced with the automobile, their paint jobs would be ruined by the same invisible claws. Even people have reported being scratched!
One group of teenagers even go as far as claiming they saw Emily. As they parked their car in the bridge, they said the form of a woman appeared in front of their car and began to approach them. Terrified, they scrambled to lock their doors. She stood outside jiggling the door handles for a few minutes, trying to get in. With no luck, her form eventually dissipated into the night air.
Other weird things have said to happen in and around the bridge. Gold Brook, a beautiful rocky brook that runs underneath the bridge may have some sort of bizarre property attatched to it as well. Some claim that on certain days, phantom music, which is said to resemble windchims or the soft strumming of a harp is said to come from underneath the bridge, but when curious listeners go to investigate, they can’t find the source of the music.
What’s going on here, and what can we make of all this? Could it really be Emily? Or perhaps another ghost who died on the bridge along time ago? Perhaps author Joseph Citro guessed best, when he lumped Emily’s Bridge into one of Vermont’s few “window areas”, or, geographical areas with strange supernatural properties, where unexplainable occurrences are said to manifest, and maybe even portals to other worlds are said to reside. Or maybe it’s just the product of over active imaginations inspired by curiosity and an infamous urban legend?
There is no concrete answer, and no way to know just for sure. The story of Emily’s Bridge and the countless other historical facts, variations and paranormal claims from many people are so large in numbers and so conflicting, that it is almost impossible to pick at the pieces. So in the end, it’s up for you to decide.
One thing is for certain, however; Emily has become immortal, whether she actually existed or not.
Gold Brook, which runs below Emily’s Bridge. Gold Brook got its name after Abial Slayton found gold here after he got back from prospecting in California in 1849. He only got around $200 in gold, though, and gave up shortly after, but that didn’t stop people then, and even today, from still trying their luck at panning for gold in the brook.
** I’d like to sincerely thank Barbara Barawand from the Stowe Historical Society and Joeseph Citro for inspiring me to write this entry, and for providing me with this fascinating information.
Links:
If you’re curious, Emily’s Bridge actually has an official website. Or, as official as it gets anyways.
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 nearing the end of October, the fires of fall had long faded, and winter was on its way. The winds were bitter now, and brought a fierce chill in the icy blasts that blew the remaining leaves from the trees. I ran into a friend of mine, and he seemed excited. He explained he had found an abandoned house earlier that morning en route to work, and wanted to go back and check it out. I decided to join, setting out into the wild backroads of the Northeast Kingdom.
By now, we had been traveling on remote dirt roads for a while, and we were at the point where most roads we passed didn’t have any street signs labeling them. We were in the middle of nowhere, without cellphone service. The hill began to get steeper, and the road turned into something that was probably more of a four wheeler trail. I could tell it hadn’t been maintained in a while, evident scars of previous road wash outs showed gravel deposits that had been pushed deep into the forests on the side. As his SUV bumped and jarred around, I kept my eyes open for anything matching his description of the house in question, while questioning if taking this road was such a good idea or not. Then, on the right side of the road, I saw something.
As soon as I turned to my friend, he put the car in park. “This is it” he said, confirming my question. I stared out the window at this strange structure, and words escaped me. I had no idea what to make of it, I wasn’t even sure it was abandoned. Ok, it was pretty ramshackle, and it looked like it was on the verge of collapse. It didn’t look like it had electricity, and the “yard” was littered with old rusted cars from decades ago. But something didn’t feel right. There were several bright “No Trespassing” signs nailed to the trees in the front, as well as a few posted on the structure itself. That’s not so abnormal I thought to myself. That was until I saw a dog come towards the car. “Joe, there’s a dog outside…this place can’t be abandoned. Someone has to own that dog” I stated. But he had already opened his door and was climbing out of the car. “Let’s check it out” was his reply. Shrugging my shoulders, I followed him. The dog was a little bizarre, but my curiosity was stronger. Then to my surprise, two more dogs appeared behind the one that had made its way over to us. I know knew for a fact that this place was anything but abandoned.
A little unnerved now, I took my camera out from its bag, and got ready to take a picture of the place. If we drove this far, I might as well get one picture I thought to myself. I looked through the view finder, and as I lined up my shot, I noticed something else in my picture besides the building I wanted to capture. There was a woman staring at me, a questionable look on her face. Now things were going to get interesting I thought to myself.
I lowered my camera as a sign of respect, and she walked towards us, the dogs barking wildly. But to my surprise, they were friendly, as they kept nudging my hands and wagging their tails. “Can I help you?” asked the woman, who was now standing in front of me. I fought to choose my words carefully.
“Hello miss…I’m sorry, I didn’t realize….” she cut me off. “You didn’t realize anyone lived here.” she deadpanned, still looking at me quizzically. I had a hard time reading her, I couldn’t tell if she was angry or just as curious by our presence as we were with hers. “No, I’m really sorry. See, I was told this place was abandoned… I’m what’s called an urban explorer, I take pictures of abandoned places” She didn’t speak for a few moments, but the awkward silence was broken when she started to laugh. “Haha, well I have to say. I’ve been approached by many people before about my house, but I can honestly say you’d be the first ‘urban explorer’ I’ve ever met. Is that really a thing?” I laughed at that. “Yes ma’am, people actually take pictures of abandoned places for fun” I said that with a sense of pride in my voice. “And you’d be one of them” she retorted, a smile now on her face. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean any disrespect, honestly.” She waved her hand, dismissing my apology. “No need to apologize, I now know you weren’t here to cause trouble. Most people who do stop by tend to be more of a hell raiser then you”
“Do you get bothered often?” I asked, a hint of concern and innocent curiosity in my voice. “Plenty” she wasted no time in answering. “I have punk teenagers and driving up and down this road at all hours of the day, yelling vulgar things and throwing rocks at my house. I’ve even had people stop and try to explore the place. They’ve walked right into my living room before! I’ve had to chase them out!” That must be an amusingly awkward scenario for both parties. One one side, you are surprised to find out you are in someone’s living room, and on the other side, you are surprised to find a trespasser in your living room.
“Oh man, that’s terrible” I said. But honestly,what do you say to something like that? This whole situation was pretty unique, if not completely bizarre. But the woman was very friendly, she seemed she was almost grateful for our company. “I bet you’re wondering what this place is” she said, a grin appearing on her face. I looked at her, not really knowing what to say. Yea, I was very curious, but how do I phrase my answer without insulting what seemed to be this woman’s home. “Yes, the thought did cross my mind” I said laughing, trying to appear friendly as possible. She laughed too. “Well, you happen to be looking at my house!” She gestured her arm at her personalized property. I could tell she was proud of it. “Here, do you have a few moments?” she asked. “You drove all the way here, I might as well give you the grand tour if you’d like?”
I couldn’t believe this. One minute we were slated as suspicious characters, the next we were being invited into this woman’s home. I was incredibly humbled. “I would love a tour, but would I be imposing?” She assured me I wouldn’t be, and motioned for me to follow her. “Are you going to take pictures?” she asked me, as she eyed my camera. “I’d like too, but would you prefer me not too? I want to be respectful of you and your property”. She smiled at this. “No! Of course you can take pictures!” She then quickly looked at her house, her facial expression changing. “Oh wait! not yet! let me clean up a little first, I wasn’t expecting company” Her statement was sincere I could tell, but I couldn’t help laugh a little at the irony of her comment.
She led me and my friend up the very steep and slick bank to her “front door”. The slight incline was a lot steeper and more slippery then it looked from the road, I found myself gripping the nearby trees as I climbed. It took her no time at all to reach the door, she was used to the walk. “Be careful!” she said, her voice full of concern. I found my way up to her front porch area, a crude landing built with a collection of pallets and planks of wood. A rather large reclining chair sat in the corner that looked pretty comfortable, until I remembered that the chair was outside all year long. I put my hand on the side, and it sunk into the wet material. I had forgotten it had just rained. She was already inside now, picking up various items and putting them in chosen places. “I’m almost ready! Please, come in” she yelled. I did. The inside of the house looked no more different then the outside of the house. Except it was more inclosed and there was more furniture. I noticed her walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookcases, all filled with old books. “See my books?” she said with pride. “You probably guessed, I love to read” She was also an artist. She knit rugs and liked to oil paint, a few of her paintings sat in a corner nearby. She was a fascinating woman.
“So, tell me, you’re into taking pictures of abandoned houses?” she brought that up again. I laughed at this, as I have gotten the same reaction from so many others. “That’s a really interesting hobby. But then again, you’re a very interesting gentleman” she said with a smile on her face. I knew she had just complimented me. “I’m Chad by the way”, and held out my hand to introduce myself. The least I could do was tell her my name, she was friendly enough to invite me into her home. To protect her identity, I’ll disclose her name.
“So, let me tell you about my house” she said as we continued to walk around the inside. I kept watching my step, it was pretty cluttered inside and the ramshackle construction left me in a cautious mindset. Her story was incredible.
She fell in love with a man from Connecticut and had two children with him.He earned a very decent salary working at IBM and eventually, he retired because he had earned enough to live comfortably for the rest of his days. They had purchased property in the wilds of Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom, and it was here where they planned to build their dream house. They made the journey up in her beat up old Chevy van, where it broke down right on their arrival at their property. It hadn’t been moved from it’s resting place since. They ran into immediate obstacles such as zoning laws and permits for building a house, and running electricity and water to their remote mountain property. The land was ledge, so a lot of it would have to be professionally blasted to make way for any foundation.
Their arrival in the Green Mountain State wasn’t as welcoming as she had hoped, but she remained optimistic and kept her vision of her grand home and soon to be happy life in mind. But sadly, it wasn’t to be. Her lover (for reasons not exactly known) fell for another woman. She became teary eyed at this point of the story. “He just began to hate me…” she said. The tension in their relationship became unbearable, and he spontaneously up and left her to be with his new lover. As for the kids, with a little bribery and vulgar comments towards her, he convinced them to go with him. As her life crumbled in front of her, she now found herself stuck with a piece of rugged property, miles from civilization with no money, no house and no family. She couldn’t go anywhere, she had no one to turn too, she was alone.
But instead of giving up, she stayed strong, and harvesting her Yankee Ingenuity, she began to build her dream house. The materials came from sources of all kinds. Garage sales, scrap heaps, junk yards, things she found on the roadside, donations, anything she could find. Soon, her ramshackle castle began to take shape as she single handedly built the foundation, floors and ceilings of her home. “See these beams?” she said, as she pointed over head to some incredibly thick wooden beams that held the ceiling up. “I put those there, by hand, by myself” I couldn’t believe it. They looked like they would be far too heavy for anyone to lift alone, yet alone get them at that height, up that steep bank. “Ropes and pulleys” she said, sensing my confusion. “All hand made, right here on the property”. To say I was impressed was the greatest understatement of the moment. I was baffled. The house started out with one room, and over the years as she got more building material, more were added. She then expanded, and created a loft upstairs. She is an experienced builder and carpenter as it turns out, so she knew what she was doing. “It may not look it, but this place is actually incredibly sturdy. The strongest winds won’t knock this place over, and trust me, I’ve been hit by some bad storms before” she said. I was still in awe. “What do you do when it rains?” I ask, noticing the holes in the roof and walls. The rain doesn’t bother her. “if it rains, it rains” she says. “Most of my valuables are protected, and if a little gets in the house, it’s not the end of the world”. In her situation, simplicity and modesty were everything. You can’t get too attached to things. As for her children, she fought for custody – the one time she went to the state for legal aid. And was declined flatly. “It’s unfair” she said. “They take one look at my house, and judge me, tell me I’m unfit to be a mother”. Her eyes were filled with sadness again. “My kids don’t even come and visit. I don’t have a TV or an XBox, they want nothing to do with me” I remained silent.
“Want to know my favorite part of the house?” she asked me, her eyes now twinkling. “Sure, I’d love too” I said, smiling at her. She brought me over to a corner of the house with a large window. “See this? I come here on clear nights after the leaves have fallen from the trees and just look up at the stars. The skies are so clear here, you can see for miles with no light pollution. It’s my favorite place in the world”. I could only imagine just how wonderful that must have been. “What do you do in the winter?” I asked her. “Surely it gets cold around here”. She pointed to a beat up old camper parked behind the house that I didn’t see before. “I sleep in there. There is no heat in the house, so I have no choice”. That made perfect sense.
As for food and other necessities, she walks 7 miles into town where the nearest grocery store is, every week, rain or shine. She doesn’t drive, and doesn’t mind the walk. She actually enjoys the walks. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy in town. They all spread rumors about me. But they are so quick to judge what they don’t know” I understood what she meant on a personal level. Because of a learning disability I have, I’ve grew up feeling like a social outcast. Though we may be facing different scenarios, the pain is relatable.
“Do you ever think about selling this place?” I asked. “I’ve been approached a few times by various people, but I always refuse offers. This is my home now, I created this and I’m not going anywhere”
At this point, several hours had passed, and the daylight was disappearing behind the silhouette of Stannard Mountain in the distance. I knew I had to leave soon. But that was a melancholic feeling. In the short time I had gotten to know this woman, I had grown to really like her. Apart from her troubled past and fierce perseverance, she was kind and intelligent. She walked us out to the car, her dogs following her. “I can’t thank you enough” I started. “For everything” She could tell I was being sincere. “I should be thanking you, it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope you got all the pictures you wanted” I nodded my head and told her I did. I shook her hand again, and prepared to leave back to college, the image of a warm shower in my mind. “Hey!” she called out. I turned around. “If you are ever in the area again, feel free to stop by. I can make us some tea” I assured her I would. One day, I honestly hope to take her up on that offer.
—————————————————————————————————————————————–
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!
Every once and a while, I’ll have someone tell me a bizarre or strange tale that they swear has supposedly happened to them. Some of them are entertaining at best, but others surpass that, and create long lasting impressions. I don’t know, maybe I love these tales because they make me think that perhaps we’re something else than meat and bones, or perhaps it’s the allure of the ability for things to still exist that can defy any explanation that can be backed by science. Simply put; they challenge my very logical way of thinking and make me look at the familiar in an unfamiliar way. These are the stories that I would like to feature on this blog, and I think I found a good one to start with.
A Lost Town
Little River State Park in the town of Waterbury has shoreline on the beautiful Waterbury Reservoir, and extends into a grand patch of bumpy land that climbs up the mountains that form the back spine of lofty Mount Mansfield. Driving up Little River Road as it follows the sand banked river of the same name, it immediately becomes apparent that the area is wildly beautiful. But it’s tumbling topography yields another truth; the land up this way is rugged and rough. While outdoor enthusiasts really dig the state park, a century ago, the people who settled here weren’t as fond of the place – but their desperation for independence and land to build that on outweighed the many pitfalls.
The sinuous reservoir that snakes around green mountains was built for more practical purposes; to attempt to prevent ruinous floods that wiped out the town that once used to be here.
A century ago, real estate worked a bit differently than today’s trends. Prospectors pretty much settled anywhere where there was available land, including topography of the rough and rocky variety. Higher elevations were also less prone to flooding than down in the valleys, which is why many old stage roads or settlements can be found in higher elevations or places we may consider strange.
The slopes of Western Waterbury were cleared in the 1800s, and a small community of about 50 people formed, unofficially called “Ricker Mills”, “Ricker Basin” or sometimes, “The Ricker Mountain District”, all monikered after the large cluster of people who settled there with the same last name.
The settlement would eventually grow to encompass about 4,000 acres on the southeastern slopes of Ricker Mountain, which also took on the prevalent surname. But their choice of location made life up in the hills pretty rotten.
Most settling families were impoverished but they got by alright, their farms -which were hard to support on land that was mostly rocks – never prospered. The only other industries to really take off here were sawmills, taking advantage of mountains of timber and the many streams that picked up speed as they tumbled down to the valleys below.
Even today, some elderly residents who live in neighboring towns can still recall Ricker Mills as an existing place, and tell nostalgic stories of hardships. Families all had to pitch together to work on the farms in order to run a successful operation, and if one member wasn’t doing their job, the farm would limp or come to a stand still.
Eventually, younger generations began to slowly move away, looking for better opportunities. But the town’s death was sped up by the infamous flood of 1927 on November 3rd and 4th, when torrential rainfalls and frozen ground created a disastrous flood that paralyzed Vermont. The little river’s rising waters drove the valley residents to their roofs and isolated the settlement from the rest of Waterbury when the roads were washed out. In 1934, a second flood put an end to the already crippled community. Those who already hadn’t moved away were forced out when the state decided to close the roads into town for good, then began buying up all the land. The flooding inspired the creation of the aforementioned Waterbury reservoir and dam, a toilsome task built by five thousand men of the U.S. Army Corps Of Engineers and the Civilian Conservation Corps, who finally finished the massive retention project in 1938.
I attempted to go back roading back in March with a buddy, which was really just us sliding around wash boarded, muddy dirt roads a lot and wondering if it was a good idea. We found ourselves at the foot of the Waterbury Dam. I was really digging the Art Deco detailing I was seeing.
Today, old cemeteries, sawmill remains, old town roads, bridges, and many cellar holes can still be seen as evidence of a past community. Surprisingly, a lone farmhouse from the settlement’s existence also survives off one of the trails; the ramshackle and haunted looking Almeran Goodell farmhouse, which was at one point a hunting camp before the park took possession of it. Little River State Park owns the land know, and a walk on one of its many hiking trails make these ruins easily accessible for anyone who wants to see them. Local lore maintains that when the water levels are low enough in the reservoir, which is now a popular place for outdoor recreation lovers, you can see the soaked and rusted remnants of the old iron bridge that once bridged Little River and was the main entrance into town.
Though the ghost town is an almost unsatisfyingly easy place to get too via Little River Road that parallels its river namesake, once you’re on one of the well-trodden hiking trails, it’s a surprisingly vast and desolate place, almost otherworldly. Tromping around the scattered ruins through bushy foliage that is brilliant in the fall, you can actually get a good sense of vanishing history.
Stone foundations and a variety of constructions can be found throughout the woods on the trails.If you wanted to travel anywhere in the mountains, you had to cross plenty of streams, so local communities built “high bridges”, or, bridges built atop stone culverts to better withstand flood waters. But they often didn’t.The old road has long faded into obscurity.
The Goodell House is the last remaining house on Ricker Mountain, partially thanks to help from local Boy Scouts who fought to restore it, at over 140 years old.
Foundation at Little RiverLooking down an old well.Artifacts left behind
But does something else remain here other than stone foundations and weathered gravestones? Does something unknown skulk among the trees and silent swampland? I’ve heard more rumors than I thought I would that Little River State Park was haunted, but never have actually heard any specific accounts to back them up. Most details fall flat and don’t offer anything credible. A ghost town in the middle of a pretty remote stretch of woods is certain to conjure up some sort of folklore, though. Vermont is a state of extremes where either a topic has been written about to monotony, or it hasn’t been covered at all. I was hoping to break some ground here, and I knew I was onto something good when I heard this story.
A Night In The Woods
I’m proud to have been entrusted with this story, and to write about it in my blog. This is the first time this has ever been written down or told beyond a quite campfire in my backyard.
A few years ago, John, an experienced hunter took a hike into the wilds of Ricker Mountain. His plans were to spend a few days in the woods hunting and camping under the stars – a little much-needed rest and relaxation. Being an experienced woodsman, he planned carefully. He found a suitable spot for his campsite, and began to clear it of brush and tree branches. He even found some nice flat stones nearby to construct a fire pit from.
People generally are in two different camps when it comes to spending the night in the woods. John loved it. The first night, he was almost asleep inside his tent when he heard a strange noise. In the darkness, he listened carefully. It sounded like fingertips that were scratching the outside of his tent. He knew he had cleared the area of any tree branches, and it was a windless night, so he thought it had to be an animal. But he noticed that the woods had descended into an eerie silence, a silence he has never heard before. After a while, the tapping stopped. He waited for it to start up again, but it didn’t. He soon shrugged it off and fell asleep.
The next night, he awoke to the sound of someone or something, tugging at his tent straps. Again the woods fell into that eerie silence. He sat up in his sleeping bag and tried to assess the bizarre situation, but couldn’t really think about what to do other than wait for something to happen. The tugging soon stopped, and nothing ever happened. But he didn’t go back to sleep – and spent the rest of the night in anticipation, waiting until the sun rose. The next morning he noticed that the tent strap hadn’t just been pulled, it had been cut! It was a clean-cut, as done with a knife, yet he hadn’t heard the sound of tearing fabric, or the noises of any other human around.
Weighing his options, he decided to stay another night, trying to jump to a logical conclusion that could explain the previous night’s events while also falling into the gravity of his stubborn nature. He nonchalantly assumed that whatever it was, it didn’t really pose a real threat to him, and it didn’t know how long he was camping here because even John didn’t know! Surely it was gone by now. He wanted to leave when he’s good and ready, because it was hard enough to get time off from work and he wanted to enjoy the little time he had. So he decided to stay.
But on the third night, John got the surprise of his life. He woke up suddenly when the bottom of his sleeping bag, which had moved in his slumber and was touching the tent wall, was grabbed violently “as with human hands” and forcefully yanked towards the tent door. He instinctively grabbed his shotgun next to him and yelled “try that again and you’ll be sorry!” and waited with bated breath and adrenaline for something to happen. But nothing did. Again he noticed the eerie, almost unnatural silence of the woods. Nothing was making a sound, and this time, he recalled being incredibly uncomfortable by it. Surely he would have heard whatever the intruder was, retreating across all the brittle fallen leaves near the campsite, but he didn’t.
He knew it would be foolish to leave in the middle of the night, especially because he didn’t know exactly what was out there waiting for him. He knew it would be a foolish attempt to get back down towards the road. So he spent the rest of the night awake, shotgun at the ready, and as soon as dawn cracked the dark, he began to frantically pack his things.
As he took down his tent, he noticed something peculiar. As he was ensuring that the embers in the firepit were extinguished, he noticed something about one of the stones he had used to form the circular wall that he hadn’t noticed before. Somehow, unknowingly, he had used a fallen headstone from a forgotten and neglected cemetery nearby, now almost indistinguishable from years of dead leaves and fallen branches.
John doesn’t believe in ghosts, and doesn’t subscribe to any of the mythology of the paranormal and the tales that other people chase, but he managed to choke out an out of character diagnosis. “Well, man I don’t know. Maybe it was one of the ghosts of Ricker Mountain, angry that I used their headstone as part of my firepit.”
I asked John if he would ever go back to Ricker Mountain. He just shook his head and said “nope”. I guess I can’t blame him.
Digging into Trouble
Upon hearing that strange tale, my own father came forward with a story of his own, one that was as unusual, if not frightening to me. Whether it actually happened or not…well, I’ll let you decide for yourself.
When he was in his early 20s, he and his cousin were fly fishing along The Housatonic River in the small Connecticut town of Kent, in the rural Litchfield Hills. It was a perfect spring afternoon, and they were having good luck on the river.
As they fished down the riverbanks, they came to a spot where a large row of power lines crossed over the river and up a nearby mountain. Mounted above a rather steep ledge above them was a large copper plaque. Being curious, they both got closer to read it. The plaque was commemorating a tragic death that took place on that very spot 100 years ago, when a copper mine collapsed killing an unknown amount of miners. They were standing on a mass grave. What happened next has no explanation. One of them suggested digging up the grave – or what appeared to be the grave site. The earth was soft and seemed easy to dig through. My father agreed. Being young and immortal, they began to pick away at the hillside. And within minutes, the pleasant spring weather turned ugly. The skies turned a dark black and before they knew it, a freak bolt of lightning struck the power lines directly above their heads.
Terrified, the two of them stopped their digging and hastily retreated back to the safety of their car. And that was when they realized that this wasn’t just an ordinary storm.
“I looked back, and noticed that the lightning was striking and hitting every tree or pole that we were running by! It was – it was like it was following us!” my dad said animatedly, getting caught up in his memory. They scrambled back onto Route 7, both breathing heavily and scared out of their minds. And just as soon as the storm started, it stopped. The skies were clear again. It was like nothing had ever happened.
They scrambled back onto Route 7, both breathing heavily and scared out of their minds. I guess anyone would be in that situation. And just as soon as the storm started, it stopped. The skies were clear again. It was like nothing had ever happened.
So is there an explanation here, supernatural or other? Was this just a bad freak storm that passed right over their heads? After all, New England is known for it’s weird weather. Or was it something more, perhaps it really was an act of vengeance from the angered ghosts of the dead minors who lost their lives under that very spot. Neither of them have an explanation, and the only conclusion I have is that they did experience something. One thing is for certain, they have never done anything that stupid ever again.
—————————————————————————————————————————————–
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!
