Tag: story

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Of Mountains and Men; Legends of Bristol’s Cliffs and Hills

I gotta hand it to teenagers, they always seem to find the coolest places to hang out. The Bristol Cliffs will verify that.

I was heading to my old roommate’s parents’ place near Lincoln to help him do a little farm work, and he was pointing out cool terrestrial hangouts he used to haunt when he was a kid. If you’re a Vermonter, chances are, you spent a lot of your youth outside, and Bristol denizens might just have one of the best towns in the state for inspiring geography. That’s also because the entire eastern charted part of the township is cliffs and mountains that are gruelingly steep, which annoyed early settlers quite a bit. Today trends have changed and now it makes for desirable real estate because people want views.

We turned up near Bristol Falls, a hugely popular swimming hole with crowds so thick in the summer that it makes a trip there not worth it at all, at least to me. But the draw is completely understandable, especially viewing the place on an off season day when you’re the only one there.

Hemming in the falls are a set of craggy cliffs that are the side of a 1,825-foot rise known by the Vermont geographical place names board as Deer Leap. Locals just call it Bristol Cliffs, because they’re cliffs, in Bristol.

It’s a win-win for Bristol-ites, because you can admire the eye magnetic precipice from almost any point in town, and also get extraordinarily cool views of Addison County from the top of the to-the-point named ledges if you know which unmarked trail will get you up there.  It seems like most area teens do.

Local lore spins a yarn about Abenaki hunting parties chasing deer to the cliff sides and running them off the edges, where more hunters waited at the bottom to collect the carcasses.

But there is another tale that may offer an explanation, and it seems like sort of an archetypal tale that many small towns across America have in their own particular cast.

In the vague timeline of the 1800s or early 1900s, 2 love struck teens decided to commit suicide here by jumping because their families forbade them from being together, for reasons that never made it into the story. The guy held the girl’s hand, and allegedly said “Ok, dear. Leap!”. But that much of a precise detail would have had to involve a witness, and to my knowledge, none have ever came forward. I think that would make it into conversation at some point.

Today, the almost grueling hike gives you terrific views of Bristol village and Addison County and a sweat soaked shirt. It’s also a Peregrine Falcon nesting area, which can dive bomb at speeds of 200 mph.

The Ledges of Deer Leap in Bristol
The Ledges of Deer Leap in Bristol
The trail up Bristol Cliffs. I love finding tree carved screed.
Hiked above the haze today up to Bristol Cliffs, not to be confused with the other Bristol Cliffs one mountain over. Made it up just in time to feel a change coming up and a storm rumbling in.

 

“The Money Diggers”

It was one of those first great spring days of the year where having fun sounded better than my adult responsibilities, and I set out towards Bristol with an adventure in mind. My only obstacle was how to get there, which was at least 80% of that aforementioned adventure.

My plan was to bushwhack up towards a remote and grueling area of the Bristol mountainscape spitefully called “Hell’s Half Acre” by silver miners over a century ago. An area with an incredibly gothic ledger of tales affixed to it.

There are no trails here. No signage or public access. Just a giant mountain as a general compass point, which was a huge part of this wild area’s appeal to me. With a photocopied town tax map in hand, I studied the property boundaries and saw my portal; a narrow sliver of land between two lots that was owned by the national forest. That would be my way up to a miserable elevation called South Mountain.

Parking the car off a no trafficked gravel backroad, I simply entered the woods and walked in the direction of the mountain. I knew as long as I was going up, I was technically going in the direction I wanted.

My feet began finding numerous pine needle covered holes in the ground that are easy to slip into while walking, and roll an ankle if you’re lucky. Others are more unfortunate I suppose, and leave with broken limbs.

Eventually, the topical Quartzite rock slide loomed before me as I trekked through the budding woods in bloom, as the sun was already baking their chalky white surfaces. Undoubtedly, this is some of the most inhospitable land in Vermont.

The rocks were still retaining some of their winter moisture and snow runoff and were surprisingly damp and cool underneath where the sun couldn’t reach. It was a surreal world up there on those slopes. I could only imagine what the miners of yesteryear had to endure here. Some of the old shafts were still visible underneath toppled boulders and through drifts of decomposing leaves and pine needles, but were far too dangerous to venture down into without more planning on my part. And alas, no silver to be found.

What’s this about silver? This formidable landscape of boulders is where Vermont’s most well-known treasure tale once conspired a few centuries ago, and is practically a ghost of an occurrence nowadays that can barely be traced with a bit of optimistic scrutiny.

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Trekking through the woods, the land soon became strewn with boulders and loose rocks that tumbled underneath your feet as you climbed higher up the slopes.
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Closer to the rock slides, trees have long adapted to the rough area and have grown up, around and even on top of large boulders.
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The sun baked Quartzite surfaces of Hells’ Half Acre

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For a landlocked state, I was surprised and pleased to hear that Vermont had quite a few buried treasure stories through years of folklore research. And a rough area south of Bristol village seemed to be Vermont’s most notorious and alluring. Mostly because this one enticingly remains unclaimed under inexplicable circumstances- if it ever existed to begin with.

Could there still be a huge load of unclaimed silver up there waiting to be uncovered by a passing woods person?  Clambering my way around the dark holes entering into the bowels of Hells’ Half Acre that validated these claims, I wanted to know more about what happened here.  So I took to researching it, and it’s a terrific story, even if some of it may be nothing but fabrication. I’ll try to condense everything as best I can.

We can begin with this whole treasure hunting business with an outsider appearing in Bristol in 1800, a Spaniard named DeGrau. Because Bristol, Vermont was a small, insular town at the time, the locals took notice to a nonnative wandering into the general store to purchase mining supplies, of all things. He kept to himself, never asked for any favors, and didn’t hang around long enough to socialize.

But it wasn’t until bewildered and frightened kids began telling their parents that a strange gentleman had been threatening them in some unfamiliar tongue when they were playing up South Mountain. They had heard some strange clout and other noises and when they went to investigate, they ran into him and he chased them off. The description matched the fellow folks saw in the general store.

His violent attitude and secretive demeanor was all the reason fathers and older brothers needed to form an angry mob. They armed themselves and marched up onto the mountain with two clear choices for the man; explain his business here, or get driven out of town. Or, maybe both if he was really unlucky.

There, they heard the collision of metal against rock – the same noises that attracted their kids before –  and creating the noise was the oddly dressed Spaniard who was already out of place in the hardscrabble Bristol of the 19th century.  The mob surrounded him and gave him their ultimatum.

Seeing no other way out, he dropped his ax and exhaustively told his accusers that his name was DeGrau, and proceeded to enlighten the curious group with quite the tale.

Many years ago, his father, who was a miner, traveled the area with a group of Spanish explorers in search of precious metals and they found a rich vein of silver near the area he was digging, when Bristol was nothing more than a crude collection of cabins called Pocock.

They procured the mining equipment and a larger crew and began operations. Almost immediately, they found great success – the ore was rich and easily smelted into silver bars. They mined throughout the summer and into the fall and when they were ready to leave, they found that they couldn’t carry everything back with them – they had too much! So, they hid the remaining silver in a cave and hid the entrance. They all agreed they would come back for the rest of the silver, on the condition that they would have to be together. But, complications prevented them from coming back, until years later when DeGrau, who was now a very old man, was the only survivor of the original group.

The residents of Bristol not only believed his tale – they were fascinated by it! But there was a problem. DeGrau couldn’t find the treasure, the mountain looked different now, he didn’t remember where the cave was. It was probably covered by some rock slide that is the trademark feature of this unforgiving landmass. But, the locals who were now doing some scouting of their own,  were able to find evidence of old mining operations around the area, which validated his claim to them. Soon, he faded out of the picture, and eager Bristol residents took his place, digging around the base of the mountain, hoping to strike it rich.

Soon, he faded out of the picture, perhaps more grumpy and disheartened than he was before his last arrival in town,  and eager Bristol residents took his place, digging around the base of the mountain, hoping to strike it rich.

The rock slides and cliffs of Hells' Half Acre and South Mountain, as seen from Route 116. via Google street view.
The rock slides and cliffs of Hells’ Half Acre and South Mountain, as seen from Route 116. via Google street view.

Over time, people from beyond Bristol’s borders made their way to the mountain slopes to seek their fortunes.

Small-time operations existed in the area until around 1840, when a group of Canadians lead by a mysterious “Uncle Sim” trekked down to Bristol and began more intense mining operations. Uncle Sim was said to do no work himself, but instead, would direct and control the operations in idiosyncratic ways. He was said to be very charismatic, and incredibly persuasive, which I guess most hucksters are. He raised all his investments by promising $100 returns for every dollar raised.

Instead of doing the traditional scouting and digging, which relied on methodology and wisdom, Uncle Sim had a better idea, and hired a fortune teller, a clairvoyant Calais woman named “Sleeping Lucy” Ainsworth, Vermont’s most infamous spiritualist, to guide them and tell them where to dig mine shafts.

Stories of miners hiding behind rocks and in caves and making bear noises to scare local kids were also told. When that didn’t work, the diggers also made up terrifying folk tales about ghosts and vicious dogs that haunted the mine.

In just a half acre,  they dug numerous shafts into the rocky mountain soil, some that were said to reach 50 feet down, and then travel hundreds of feet directly under the mountain. The area was honeycombed with so many shafts that were said to be miserable, dark and cold that the area was given the nickname, Hell’s Half Acre. And the name couldn’t have been more fitting.

With months of back breaking labor yielding no results, tragedy and bad luck seemed to be the only thing the ambitious crews were discovering. Mine shafts had to be abandoned due to “foul air”, flooding issues and snow drifts. More work went into reclaiming the shafts than digging them. If that wasn’t bad enough, it was hard to haul food and supplies up into the mountains, so a lot of men were close to starving after a while.

By 1852, Uncle Sim begrudgingly gave up, packed up his crew and headed back to Canada. But he was apparently a determined or foolish man, and a decade later, he returned to the site. With the aid of a new conjurer, he was assured that all he had to do was move a few rocks, and he would discover the elusive passage which contained the treasure. But his effort was shorter lived than his first one. An old man by now, he eventually swallowed the taste of defeat and left Bristol, vanishing into obscurity.

A few other attempts at mining were made throughout the years, but no success ever came out of it, and as far as we know, there is a large treasure of silver still waiting somewhere within the foul depths of Hells’ Half Acre.

Is There Truth Here?

I’m not sure now, after researching this intriguing series of events more closely.

The problem here is that silver isn’t native to Vermont, according to the state geologist- and the idea of Spanish parties trekking down through the out of the way wilds of Vermont’s green mountains and finding veins of silver here is a little, well, unbelievable, considering they really had no reason to be here during that time frame. Unless of course, that silver was brought here and stashed for safe keeping that was all too successful? More interestingly, a few other Vermont towns have their own treasure tales, which are pretty similar to this one. But they all happen to be inspired by Silver, as opposed to Gold, which can be found in Vermont.

About the one thing I can confirm without a doubt is that the mining attempts did happen, and we have the old mine shafts and odds and ends still found underneath loads of pine needles on the forest floor to prove it.

Even the ubiquitously used term “Money Diggers” is a misnomer. They weren’t digging for money, but rather, a precious metal. At least they thought they were.

And “Uncle Sim” was real too. In a few additions of the defunct Bristol Herald, printed circa 1888-89,  newspaper writer Franklin S. Harvey recalled personal accounts of a run in with him in 1860, when Uncle Sim was at that point, a feeble old man. The sight of him digging around the rocks and cliffs looking for that silver was apparently so pitiful, that Harvey forgave him for jumping out behind rocks and making bear noises that scared him so badly when he was a kid investigating the diggings for himself. Harvey even claimed to speak with reliable Bristol old-timers who still remembered DeGrau, so we know he was real too. But the fact DeGrau dug and labored and found nothing also brings a little flimsiness to the story. Later on, Harvey’s accounts were collected into a now out of print book called The Money Diggers. 

The venerable Joseph Citro thinks that the story may be bunk, and brought forth some great validating research on this story.  Through Citro’s research, he uncovered an interesting thought by New England folklorist and historian Edward Rowe Snow, who speculated that the silver may have found its way into Vermont because of the plundering of a distressed ship off the coast of New London, Connecticut.

In November of 1752, the Spanish ship Spanish ship Santa Elena y Senor San Joseph was on it’s way from Hondorous to Spain. Its hold was loaded with at least 40 chests filled with silver. But on November 24th, the vessel ran into some trouble at sea and was forced to dip in towards New London where it anchored. It should have been a straightforward repair if the requests for aid weren’t met by thievery instead.  Most of that silver somehow vanished while in port, and the whereabouts are a mystery that probably will never be solved. Maybe the stolen loot somehow found its way up into the far-flung wilds of Vermont to be stashed, or maybe the party was on their way to Canada. Maybe. If that’s the case, what about the other Vermont towns and their similar treasure tales?

Another theory is that the local Indians may have put it there, but that also lacks validation.

Ghastly Tales

I guess the laws of buried treasure state that when you have one, you also have the supernatural. In Bristol’s instance, a ghost or two.

The original and more morbid of the tales is that when the mysterious Spanish prospectors were mining the base of South Mountain, they sacrificed a local boy and his dog under the moon, its light burning their blood on the stark white boulders. I guess it’s no secret that avarice brings out the worst in people and our monsters often say the most about humanity.

Anyways, this grim act was supposed to supernaturally bound the boy to protect the mine for all eternity, shambling through the shadowy woodlands around tree stumps and near caves, with a smoldering hot branding iron and a frightful gash across his throat, chasing away anyone who gets too close to the fabled mine. His dog turned hell hound is said to join him, growling and threatening to tear the throats out of anyone who ventures too close. Strangely enough, Harvey once wrote that some of those miners, who were gray-haired, aged men, actually admitted to hearing weird howls and groans at dusk.

The more modern version turns the boy and his dog into sympathetic figures. One fall afternoon, a boy and his dog went hiking in the woods around Hell’s Half Acre, exploring the abandoned mines and cavities and rotting wooden platforms. And perhaps maybe, something flickered in the back of the boy’s mind as he continued with his dog, something about a lost fortune of silver that was never found…

But as night fell, they never came home. His worried parents soon launched a search party, and plenty of neighbors and volunteers combed the woods and found nothing. After weeks of searching, they reluctantly gave up, and the cold Vermont winter rolled in. The next spring, a passing woodsman was walking through the woods, when he noticed something peculiar at the edge of a mine shaft. As he got closer, he recognized it as the skeleton of a dog. Then it clicked. If he was looking at the remains of a dog, sure enough, that vanished boy had to be nearby.

At the bottom of the 50-foot shaft, the skeleton of a little boy was found. The boy had fallen into the mine shaft and broken both his legs, unable to get out, he starved to death. His faithful dog refused to leave his side, and died at the edge of the hole. And then, supernature happened.

For years after, and maybe even today, folks up around Bristol Notch would say that when the weather was just right on certain nights, they could hear something coming through the woods. Something that may have sounded somewhat like a lonely cry for help.

Regardless if any of this is true or not, it was a great area to bushwhack up to none the less, and the landscape, which is strangely alien and dangerous, makes for a great elixir for your imagination.

Sources:

There was some great material to aid my research here; including:

The Money Diggers by Stephen Greene ( in the compilation book; Mischief in the Mountains)

Green Mountains, Dark Tales by Joseph Citro

The Money Diggers, by Franklin Harvey

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

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

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

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

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The Reading Abduction Stones

Propped inconspicuously off a no-frills stretch of state route 106 in Reading, south of the attractive little village of Felchville are a curious set of stones that are too easy to miss. If you were to take a look, you might be perplexed at the strange, enigmatic hieroglyphs found on them, with pictures of a bow an arrow, people, trees and what appear to be pick axes, what do these curious images mean? Underneath is faded scrawl, scribed in eighteenth-century English. These stones are certainly vexing. So what are they?

These are actually a monument, chiseled and erected in 1799 that mark an older occurrence, an Indian abduction.

Susanna Johnson and her family were abducted by a party of Abenaki in 1754 from Charlestown, NH, and were marched by their captors across Vermont towards Canada. But when they reached the banks of Knapp Brook, Mrs. Johnson went into labor and unceremoniously gave birth to a daughter, before being forced to continue the trek shortly after.

During their years in captivity, her son assimilated into the Abnaki culture, while her daughter was sold to a French Canadian family from Montreal. The details are vague here, but Mrs. Johnson would eventually return home.

But years later, through a series of contacts, the three family members were briefly united. However, they were unable to communicate with each other linguistically or culturally.

Mrs. Johnson had the abduction stones monument made and put in their current spot, both where she gave birth and where they still sit today, and are the oldest such monument in the country. But while the 18th century English is translatable, the weird assortment of carved pictures are pretty peculiar. Perhaps we’ll never know.

In 1918, someone encased the stones in a larger stone monument, to preserve them forever, and today they rest on the side of Route 106, barely noticed by passersby.

If you wish to find them, look for the dirt pull off on Route 106, near the junction of Knapp Brook Road in Reading. 

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As seen driving down Route 106. What’s in a name anyway?
As seen driving down Route 106. What’s in a name anyway?

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

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

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

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

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Mysterious Snake Mountain

Fog shrouded the barren farmlands as icy winds sputtered and spinned outside the car as we moved down Route 22A through the flats of Addison County. There is something about late Fall, the odd transition period of old and the rebirth of Spring that is strangely ideal for adventuring. There is a certain melancholy about this time of year that rides the winds that blow in off the lake, something that a good adventure can temporarily alleviate. Things are more vulnerable in the Fall, and more raw. These thoughts were confirmed as the hulking and lengthy form of Snake Mountain loomed ahead in the fog and cold rain.

There is something mysterious about Snake Mountain that is conjured by its isolation. Sitting right in the middle of otherwise pancake flat farmland in the heart of Addison County, the sprawling monadnock raises a lofty 1,287 feet above the valley below – its craggy ledges the only surface that managed to capture the sun’s warming gleam. It’s not a widely recognized area. As a matter of fact, not many seem to know you even can hike the mountain, making it all the more alluring.

Snake Mountain is the focal point of the 1,215 acre wildlife management area of the same name, forever protecting the mountain and a 9500-year-old kettle lake known as Cranberry Bog, which according to the fish and wildlife department, formed shortly after the retreat of the last glacier in Vermont. But it’s a discrete area, one that isn’t clearly marked and still remains uncongested by mobs of tourists.

When I was younger, I was told that the dense and disparate patch of wilderness used to be called Rattlesnake Mountain, and its ledges and boulders were home to the only venomous reptile in the state (which isn’t true – Fair Haven’s Rattlesnake Ridge is bestowed that honor). But if the strange urban legends are true about this enclave of no man’s land in the middle of the county, then there are far more sinister things that haunt the wooded slopes and bogs. Snake Mountain is also reportedly home to a strange cryptid dubbed as “The Black Beast of Snake Mountain”, which supposedly stalked the slopes and terrorized unsuspecting farmers back in the 1920s and 1930s.

Though I couldn’t find a description of this brazen creature, it was said to lurk behind barns and houses that surrounded the mountain, and if encountered, its said to be savage. According to The Vermont Monster Guide, one woman was attacked by this elusive creature one night while driving home after a visit with a neighbor.  It began to chase her vehicle as she panicked and began to pick up speed down a winding road that carved along the base of the mountain. To her surprise, not only was this thing managing to keep up with her car, it was catching up! Not wanting to get in a car accident, she pulled off into the first farm she saw, and it wasted no time in jumping on top of her car and began to claw at the roof. Now in hysterics, she did the only thing she could think of; she wailed on her horn. The noise grabbed the attention of the family who owned the farm, who soon appeared on the front porch in curiosity. But as soon as the floodlights were turned on, the women ran back into the house screaming at the first sight of the terrifying encounter. The men ran in shortly after to grab their guns, but when they came back outside, the animal had vanished into the Addison night.

The stories continue. Another account reported it would also jump down from tree limbs and scare children working on nearby farms. Every attempt to shoot at it was a failure, it would always vanish successfully, leaving nothing but shaken onlookers and a terrifying memory. It seems the mysterious Black Beast faded into memory and folklore, and to this day no evidence exists of what exactly was terrifying isolated residents back in the 1920s.

And now, here I was underneath gloomy grey skies battered by chilly winds and rain, staring up at my destination. The summit appeared more distant and forlorn underneath the shifting clouds that wouldn’t open up the sky. My only thoughts at the moment were how my coffee didn’t seem to be working. Although the lore about the mountain was wondrous, that wasn’t why I was there. There is also a human mystery about Snake Mountain, one that was palpable underneath shedding foliage and autumn stillness.

At the entrance to the hard to find Wilmarth Woods trail, sits an old building that looks like it may have served a nearby farm at one point, or perhaps a very tiny one room schoolhouse. Though it has been boarded up, the strange urban legends I’ve heard still swirled in my head. Stories of people peaking through the windows and seeing dusty mason jars filled with odd colored liquids and cryptic contents floating lazily inside them were alluring and most likely far fetched. Regardless of the accuracy behind that claim, the boarded windows ensured I wouldn’t be finding any answers today.

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Embarking up The Wilmarth Woods Trail, it winds its way through thick brush, past the remnants of ancient mangled farm machinery and eventually follows the rather broad and rocky remnants of an old carriage road that snakes its way up the rocky hills and silent forests – the pungent smell of wet leaves and mud hung heavy in the air. Though my starting point was sluggish, I soon couldn’t help be taken by the beauty and therapy of the forest.

While trekking through the woods, they begin to tell a seperate story, adding to the mountain’s cryptic reputation. The birch stands at the base of the mountain are covered in ambigious tree carvings – it seems that every bored teenager in Addison County has made it to Snake Mountain to carve the name of their loved on into a tree, or to tell the world that they were there. Some carvings were remarkably old, dating back almost 30 years. These youth hieroglyphics are cool to see and read as you make your way up the slopes. 

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The carriage road continues to playfully climb the mountain and dip through shadowy dales until it reaches a particular point of interest at the summit – the reason for the carriage road’s existence. Sitting on top of magnificent views of Addison County and the rugged Adirondacks in the distance lies a crumbling concrete slab that buts right up to dizzying ledges. This is the foundation of the former Grand View Hotel. Built in 1870 by Jonas N. Smith, this hotel was built during an era when many mountaintops across the Northeast were being developed into resort properties, offering fresh country and and grand views to its eager clientele. Some even claimed that fresh country air would be an ailment to whatever health issues that were plaguing you. Because of the hotel, Snake Mountain became briefly known as Grand View Mountain. In 1925, the hotel was ravaged by a fire, leaving a smoldering pile of ruins scattered along the wind swept summit. Today, the foundation and steel rods that held the building in place are still visible, along with some of the best views anywhere.

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The weather worn foundation of the former Grand View Hotel and Champlain Valley splendor in the background.
The weather worn foundation of the former Grand View Hotel and Champlain Valley splendor in the background.
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One of the original pipes, its jagged stump still protruding from the foundation surface
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The small town of Addison, visible through the mists upon Snake Mountain.
Snake Mountain Panorama
Snake Mountain Panorama

From up here on the top of Addison County, a strange silence climbs into your head. Your thoughts become more lucid, and you get a strange sense of scale as you look at the patchwork fields and gleaming silos below you. The strange connection of you being apart of this uncertain game called life which is played at the bottom of the ledges at your feet, and loneliness up there in the deep. Snake Mountain offers a great excuse to get out for a easy and rewarding day hike. And there is no better therapy to what ails you than nature.

Links:

More about Snake Mountain via The Fish and Wildlife Department. 

How to get there:

From either approach on Route 22A, make a turn on Wilmarth Road. Follow it the short distance until it intersects and ends with aptly named Mountain Road, which runs along the base of the mountain. Take a left, and follow Mountain Road a short distance until you see a dirt parking lot to your left. The Wilmarth Woods Trail head is just before the parking lot on the right side of the road. Look for the dilapidated red building.

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

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

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

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

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The Maggot Mountain State?

Writing about as many weird and esoteric things related to our small state as I can, I suppose no directory of Vermont oddities could exist without this intriguing story, because it directly relates to how our state got the most paramount piece to our identity; our name.

The mountains east of Rutland are a beautiful sight, especially in the fall when the dense hardwood forests that climb the slopes above Route 4 are burning in autumn hues as Vermont’s mountains die gloriously for the year.

When the leaves have fallen and the slopes are dusted with snow, leaf peepers are replaced with skiers and snowboarders as they flock in mass numbers to one of the East Coast’s most prominent mountain resorts, Killington.

Even though the 2010 census recorded Killington as having a year round population of around 811, the population almost triples in the winter months as thousands pour into the numerous resorts and motels lining the illustrious mountain road that snakes its way to the resort’s doorstep.

But before skiing and flatlanders were Killington’s claim to fame, it was already finding a place in Vermont history. And this is where my story officially picks up.

In school, we were taught that Samuel de Champlain was one of the first Europeans to set foot in what is now known as Vermont in 1609, along the lake that now bears his name (It’s worth noting that Jacques Cartier was said to have set foot here before him as early as 1535).

Champlain is also first credited in suggesting the name for this new land should be les Verts Monts, or “Green Mountains” in French.

Now, enter another interesting character: Rev. Samuel Peters.

Rev. Peters came to the area from his home state of Connecticut, with the intention of bringing some spirituality to godless Vermont. He traveled around central Vermont considering it his self described altruistic mission to bring sermons and baptisms to the impoverished rural communities. Along the way, he was taken by the mysteries of the mountains.

In the southern portion of the town of Killington is Killington Peak. Rising to a lofty 4,241 feet, it is officially the second-highest point in Vermont (Mount Mansfield is the first). It was here, in 1763, where the magnificent views of perpetual rolling green hills inspired the good reverend to christen the un-organized area Verd-Mont. Peters made his claim official by symbolically smashing a bottle of whiskey on the rocky summit.

14 years later, On June 2, 1777, the local legislature convened and made “Vermont” the official name of the newly formed republic. (Vermont wasn’t granted statehood until 14 years later, in 1791.)

Peters, however, was horrified and outraged at the announcement. What the new legislature didn’t realize was that the literal translation of Vermont (Ver-Mont) in French is “maggot mountain.” (Can you imagine “The Maggot Mountain State” on our license plates?)

Peters insisted they change the spelling to Verdmont as he originally proposed, and adamantly criticized them about the adapted form of the name, saying “the state had rather be considered a mountain of worms then an evergreen mountain!”

But the legislature didn’t listen. This dismissal consumed the reverend. Driven by obsession, he made it his mission to educate people about the great travesty that was done to him (with the concern for the future name of our state apparently secondary) — despite openly ignoring the fact that Samuel De Champlain had coined “les Verts Mont” for the region 154 years before his own unofficial christening.

At this point, few were willing to listen to Peters with many avoiding him, labeling him as a raving mad man, never allowing him to bask in the accolades of pride. This is where a slightly deeper look into the mysterious Rev. Peters is needed. A clergyman from Connecticut, Peters was the first reverend to come to the area on horseback in 1763.

Despite his well intended facade, the reverend was known to be a liar. His most notable example was the time he claimed to have a doctorate from the University of Cortona in Tuscany — a university which never existed.

The reverend was, indeed, something of a con artist. In 1794, he managed to persuade his fellow clergymen into electing him the first Episcopal Bishop of Vermont, an honor the Archbishop of Canterbury refused to consecrate.

It was said that Peters was not an easy person to get along with. Certainly his status as a Tory, or British sympathizer in times of the American Revolution, didn’t make him very popular around these parts. Given this information, it adds a little depth into why some Vermonters began to turn against him.

Not much is known about the later stages of Rev. Peter’s life. He would eventually die in New York City in 1826 in poverty.

Despite his questionable history, Peter’s love for the land that is now known as Vermont was sincere.

Links/Sources:

Vermont Wikipedia

History of Killington, VT

Samuel Peters on Wikipedia

Vermont: Records of the Governor and The State of Vermont (Google Books) 

Vermont: A Guide To The Green Mountain State (Google Books)

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

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

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

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

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Curious Wallingford

If I had to pick a place in Vermont I loved most, it would probably be the town of Wallingford. A small town unknown to most, a shimmer in the rolling geography and rushing traffic moving from Rutland to Bennington. Wallingford offers an attractive historic village on Route 7 and an incredible amount of vast land rising up the wooded slopes of the Green Mountains to the east of town – a rugged and wild landscape of boulders, dark forests and streams fed by melting ice.

I spent some of the best days of my childhood here at my deer camp, cherished memories that still haunt me today. But apart from all that, Wallingford is a town of intrigue and mystery. Its deep forests have swallowed ghost towns and have buried the remnants of an impolite massacre that happened over a century ago.

My favorite entrance to any town, ever. You can’t beat the view as Route 140 curves its way into East Wallingford.

According to local lore, Wallingford’s Sugar Hill was where Maple Syrup was first made in Vermont. Roughly before the town became industrialized, the cryptic remains of the skeleton of a man were unearthed behind the old stone shop on Main Street, the rotting remains of a rusted gun barrel found alongside him. Some speculated that the remains were thought to be of a soldier of the French and Indian wars, but as to how he met his death, whether by treachery, lurking savage, disease or wild beasts of the Wallingford wilds, has never been known.

But perhaps the most mysterious area of town is an unforgiving and conspicuous geographical anomaly that can be seen from all parts of town – an area aptly named White Rocks.

Rising about 2,600 feet above The Valley of Vermont, White Rocks mountain is an incredible sight. During the last Ice Age, glaciers scoured and exposed the Quartzite cliffs that makes up the framework of the mountain. Over time, the slopes eroded to a point where the face of the mountain became weak, creating several massive rock slides that crumbled down the slopes to dales and glens below, sending gigantic Quartzite boulders, some larger than an average house, down the mountain ripping up the evergreen forests as they made their visible scars.

It is here amidst this merciless landscape where an area known as the Ice Beds lay, where melting ice harbored deep within protected mountain caves feeds crystal clear mountain streams that meander their way through the woodlands. The temperature drops a good 15-20 degrees here and is a welcome respite on hot summer days.

But there is another sight among the sites here, something far more likely to capture the most vulnerable of imaginations. According to a little-known piece of local lore that was in danger of almost vanishing; the White Rocks are said to be the final resting place of a fabled treasure lost over 2 centuries ago.

As the story goes, sometime during the late 1700s, a group of Spanish prospectors passed through the area now known as Wallingford seeking fortune in the new land. In the mountains, they discovered a rich vein of silver. The group began to set up mining operations and began to dig deep cavities at the base of the mountain. Here, they were able to work in secrecy where they smelted the ore and turned it into silver coins. Eventually, they decided that they all had enough to live comfortably for the rest of their lives. But there was a problem. They had no way to transport all of their newly found wealth back to Spain. They filled their saddlebags with what they could, and hid the rest in the mine. The opening was discrete and hard to find, and they all agreed that it would be highly unlikely that another wayward prospector or woodsman would stumble upon it. But just in case, they disguised the opening the best they could, with the hopes of coming back whenever they wanted if they needed more money.

Years passed and most of the original group had died off, all but one. A frail old man by now, he wondered onto the streets of Chester, Vermont looking tired and a little confused. A kind young local man noticed his appearance and asked the old man if he was alright and needed assistance. The Spaniard was apparently so grateful at his generosity and taken by his personality that he decided to return the favor in a way the wide-eyed young man could have never seen coming. The Spaniard told his new friend now known as Richard Lawrence that his that his saddle bags were filled with silver coins, and told him about the mine in Wallingford. He informed Richard that whatever treasure was left in the mine was his to keep, on the condition that he waited until he passed away to go claim it.

As it turns out, Richard proved to be just as honest as the old man had predicted, and didn’t tell anyone about the treasure until years later, when he told a few of his good friends and decided to set out to Wallingford and the mysterious White Rocks. But after a diligent and organized search, they could not find the opening of the cave. Search efforts carried on for several months, but after frustratingly grueling hours, they reluctantly gave up and left with their heads and their hearts tossed around like the boulders that fell from those slopes long ago.

Today, the treasure has yet to be found, and the mountains still remain as elusive and mysterious. It’s no wonder that the deep area where the rock slide collided with the forest floor is known as “Chaos Canyon”. If you do believe that a buried treasure still exists within the catacomb of twisting caves and eternal ice behind the mountain, don’t plan on digging for it. The White Rocks is protected land, part of the White Rocks National Recreation Area within The Green Mountain National Forest. So for now, visions of buried treasure and the more humbling reality of the limitations of man will sink with the northern sun.

white-rocks-panorama
White Rocks Mountain underneath the mists.
The Ice Beds at the base of the mountain, underneath thick mists that were beginning to settle deep in the rocky glens below the craggy summit. On dry summer days, the rocks provide a great place to climb around – something I have spent hours doing before. But not today. The rain that had began to fall had made the Quartzite boulders slippery and dangerous.

white-rocks-panorama2

If you venture up the Keewaydin Trail, you will eventually hike past a strange looking structure sitting off into the woods. It looks like a miniature house that comes up to your chest, but this odd little one-roomed structure is long abandoned, as indicated by a giant hole in the roof. Peering inside, the rotting interior was filled with stagnant black water. There seemed to be a stream, either natural or created by runoff oozing out from underneath it. But what was it? I had no ideas. A passing hiker informed me that this was one of Vermont’s “Fairy Houses“, which are scattered mostly around the town of Grafton. But after doing the research, it just didn’t add up. This seemed more utilitarian, and a little less…I’m not sure, whimsical? Maybe this was something that once protected a natural spring? If anyone has any idea, feel free to pass the information along.

DSC_0528_pe DSC_0530_pe

The White Rocks and their vast silence of a still winter’s day. The hike was great.

From the White Rocks, Route 140 twists its way down through a deep gulf formed by the aptly named Roaring Brook. The narrow highway offers one more serpentine turn before dipping into Wallingford village, where elegant Victorian houses climb down the hillside to the small downtown district. Here, at the only traffic light in town, sits another Wallingford curiosity that is far more gentle than the White Rocks, but practically as enigmatic.

It’s made out of cast iron, colorfully painted, and depicts a young boy holding a boot which eternally drips water from a small hole into a circular pool below – his faraway eyes forever depicting a state of reverie. This is Wallingford’s “Boy with the Boot”.

At the base of the statue pool, there is a small plaque that reads: “Erected to the memory of Arnold Young by his children, April 3, 1898.” Arnold Young was the innkeeper of the Wallingford House hotel that sits directly behind the statue. It is said that Arnold’s children thought that this statue would somehow be a fitting memorial and gift to their father. But it seems like a rather peculiar memorial that a well-respected innkeeper would choose. Would Mr. Young have chosen a different memorial, rather than a boy with a leaking boot? Or maybe there was some sort of comedy at work here – an inside joke perhaps, or something that the Wallingford of the late 19th century would have understood that has since been lost?

Around 1910, the Boy disappeared and was discovered ten years later in the Inn’s attic. He was restored and has since stood in front of the hotel. The statue has become an icon of community pride, so much so that the Wallingford town website even features an animated Boy and the Boot.

The mystery, however, deepened even more after I had published an article about it in the Rutland Reader. Some old-timers recalled the statue once being painted black, and others say his eyes were originally closed, only to be painted open. And others argued against both claims, saying the statue has always looked the way it did when I photographed it.

But it wasn’t until I found a compilement of speculated history that just adds to the mystery continuum, because none of the interesting information I read was sure of itself. Written up by Emma B. Towsley, Alex Fleck and Charles Hill (a descendant of Arnold Hill), this edifice may just be ” the most mysterious statue in the world”. According to the essay title anyways.

More than 80 years ago, seven of these statues were allegedly shipped to America from Germany, but to contradict this, others have argued that this statue isn’t of German origin, but have no records as to where it’s from. Records or not, some say it came from Rome, Italy. But the Italian Embassy in New York City didn’t seem to agree with that statement. But a Swedish gentleman who had traveled through Italy swore he saw the original copy, and then had a copy of it made which can now be found existing in Stockholm, Sweden.  It seems like many more copies had been made around the 1800s, and were given as gifts to English, Canadian and American cities. But no one, not foreign governments, so-called authorities of art and state museums couldn’t weigh in at all as to who the original sculpture was.

There has been a “Boy With The Leaking Boot” Statue in Fresno, California for over 64 years, Winnipeg, Canada since 1895, Menominee, Michigan’s was brought over from Germany over 70 years ago, and the oldest one of them was around for more than 80 years in front of the Porter House Hotel in Sandusky, Ohio, where the Porterhouse Steak was debuted. Ellenville, NY is the only city to have two copies. Ohio once had two, but one died in the impact of a car crash in Wellsville. Records show that Seattle had one that came from Belgium, but it was later stolen.

The boy, suggested being depicted as being about ten years old, is an enigma himself. Who was he? One theory published long ago in an English newspaper said that the boy was modeled after a well-liked newsboy who sold papers on the streets of a town in Italy, and as the story goes, tragically drowned while he was fishing. But two men in a Californian city give their own story, and say that this boy was actually a “drummer boy” in either the Revolutionary War or Civil War, and would try to care for sick or wounded soldiers on the battlefield. Using what little he had, he pulled off his boot, ran to a nearby creek and filled it with water to give the agonized men a drink, while plugging up the hole in the front of the boot so the water wouldn’t leak out as he was running back.

All we know for sure is that fifteen of them were made, and one is on display in the middle of downtown Wallingford.

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

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

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

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

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The French Hill Murder

St Albans, Vermont, 1874. It seems that the summer brought more to town than sultry weather. The entire town was coping with a string of random and violent acts that were plaguing everyone’s peace of mind. A series of unsolved burglaries had the business community on edge, as well as a mysterious assault on a local physician who couldn’t identify his attackers. Later, a French Canadian man was killed in a stabbing incident, his attacker or attackers faded into the summer heat.

And then, on July 24th, something happened that finally caused the Railroad City to come apart at the seams.

20 year old Marietta Ball had just been hired for a teaching position at a rural schoolhouse on French Hill during the summer months. She was described as a tall and slender young woman who was intelligent and kind hearted. She had blue eyes, light brown hair and weighed 130 pounds. Because she was a spinster, she didn’t mind the work or her rural location. French Hill, being a steep and remote hill area located east of the city, involved a steep climb up the west slope before dropping behind a ridge line to get to the schoolhouse. Even today, French Hill Road is steep and challenging, and in the winter it’s a white knuckle, break riding accent down to the safety of Route 104 below.

Marietta had arranged for room and board with a neighboring farm family, The Abels. After she would be finished at the schoolhouse, she would walk a lonely road that ran south from the schoolhouse just underneath the crest of the hill to get there. On the weekends however, she would stay with the Page family whose house stood at the very south end of the road, at the junction of today’s Vermont Route 36. But on that warm July evening, she would never reach her destination.

After much time had elapsed and Marietta hadn’t arrived, the Pages began to worry. Towards the evening, Mrs. Page’s concern got the best of her, and she began walking up the road to the nearby Collins residence to see if they had possibly seen her. As she walked up into the hills, the night air began to cool down and the sunset was burning with fiery vengeance. The Collins however were just as surprised that Marietta hadn’t shown up, and by 10 P.M., a search party was assembled.

Marietta Ball's final destination, the Page Farm, still stands today.
Marietta Ball’s final destination, the Page Farm, still stands today.

Not long after setting out, the party’s lantern lights soon found what appeared to be the sight of an ambush in a nearby hollow. Near the site of the ambush was their first clue hinting that something sinister had taken place here; a makeshift mask that had been made from a piece of torn carpeting. Around 1 A.M., Frank Harris, a black man who was employed by Mr. Page, began shouting that he found a body. Through the haze of the lanterns keeping the wild shadows at bay, the gruesome remains of Marietta Ball began to take form.

Upon first assumptions, the party agreed that she had been sexually assaulted. But a later post mortem was conducted during daylight hours by a St. Albans physician named Dr. Fassett and a visiting New York physician, Dr. Janeway. Now they understood exactly what had happened. They noticed that her assailant had wrapped her head in her overskirt, which was a bit peculiar. Once that was removed, her brutal wounds were revealed. She had been savagely beaten to death. Her attacker must have had a moment of reconsideration, and made a clumsy attempt at hiding what he had done. They noted that her limbs were also re-positioned in an attempt to deceive whoever found her.

Marietta Ball
Marietta Ball

The town was outraged and their thirst for blood was ignited. Not long after Marietta’s body was found, the first of what would become several arrests were made. Frank Harris would be the first one taken into custody. A neighbor of the Page’s, Mrs Drinkwine, claimed that she left behind a fragment of the same carpet that was found at the crime scene in a rental house she owned. As it turned out, Mr. Harris was living in the house at the time of the murder, and Mrs. Drinkwine thought that was evidence. She insisted that she could prove the carpet was from the house by providing a sample of the same carpet in her own home, but her son became the voice of reason and told her that she shouldn’t make any accusations unless she knew they were true. Embarrassed, she dropped the matter and Frank Harris was released from custody with no grounds to hold him.

On July 27th, a search party was organized to search the area of the murder, in an attempt to find more evidence. Various items were soon discovered that belonged to her, including a ribbon from her hair and her damaged watch. The face of the watch had been smashed, it ceasing to function around 4:20. The search party assumed that was probably her time of death. Further investigation finally uncovered a rather large stone that had dried blood glazing its surface – they had found the murder weapon. But the frustrated party returned home with no evidence that could apprehend anyone.

Marietta’s funeral was also held on the 27th as the search party combed the slopes and marshlands of French Hill.

After Harris’s release from custody, a second suspect was immediately brought in, a former French Canadian student of Miss Ball’s named Revoir. It was known that he had been punished and removed from the school by her after an issue of conflict had taken place, which made him a suspicious character with a motive. But he also didn’t have enough evidence to be convicted, and was later released.

To add to escalating tensions and paranoia, rumors began to spread about an organized gang with sinister intentions who were hiding out in a swampy and inaccessible region of Fairfield known as Cedar Swamp. Some even blamed them for all of the burglaries and the assault on the local physician that happened before Marietta’s murder. Even today, the Cedar Swamp region of Fairfield is a mysteriously beautiful and remote location that remains almost as wild as it probably did then.

Soon, anyone who was labeled as suspicious by the ever growing tense population were detained and brought in for questioning. But because of a popular dislike at the time of “outsiders” (the lower classes, traveling beggars and minority populations), they sadly were most oftentimes the targets of suspicion and often found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. The local papers, desperate for updates on the story, printed anything they could regardless of factual information.

Now, rumor began to replace fact. Mrs. Page seemed to recall a strange man who was seen around the schoolhouse during the week before the murder, which helped aid the growing fear.

Another story accused an Irish engineer from The Vermont Central Railroad of being guilty, because a year ago he admitted he had feelings for Miss Ball but it was said that she rejected him. He didn’t take the rejection well and said some harsh words as a response, something about revenge or getting even. But upon further investigation, it was discovered that he was actually in his home at the time of the murder, and once again, the case was right back to where it began.

In a more bizarre case, a clairvoyant named “Sleeping Lucy” gave authorities a description of a man who she claimed to be the murderer, – the image of a man who came to her in a vision. Going by her description, they were actually able to find this gentleman, and he was arrested and interrogated. But despite admitting to knowing Miss Ball, by August 3rd, they had no grounds to hold him, and he was released.

By August 14th, St. Albans seemed to be in the clutches of obsession. The murder wasn’t fading into memory, it was a wildfire burning. There had already been several arrests and no convictions. Until now, the immigrant populations and the minority groups had been targeted, (Harris who was black, Revoir who was French and the train engineer who was Irish, etc) but that cup was full, and now the more esteemed members of St. Albans society began to be suspected.

The first to be suspected was the eldest son of ex-Governor Smith, George Gregory Smith. But it would be a full year before he would be be questioned, and that was only because of mounting public pressure for him to do so. And before his hearing, he openly challenged anyone who suspected him to show up and state their claim.

Others were accused as well. Friends turned on friends. If you were reported to even being in the vicinity of French Hill near the time of the murder, someone would mention your name to the police. Several people were brought in just for riding in their carriages down the hill into town. Someone else was supposedly suspected because she wore the same earrings as Miss Ball did.

Refusing to give way to the triumph of their enemies, more measures were taken. On June 25th, 1875, a group of citizens formed “The Union Investigation Society” to further embark down the long, dark road of the murder case. Among those who joined were Mr. Page and Mr. Collins. The group would then be divided into smaller groups who would be assigned to search certain districts of town.

Soon, another puzzling piece of information was unveiled. Georgia resident Eleazer Jewitt claimed that Marietta’s father, George Ball, had once told him that he knew that George Smith was the one who killed his daughter. But shortly after, Mr. Ball had reportedly gained a considerable amount of money and immediately left town for California. But before he left, he changed his story, and insisted that Frank Harris had killed her. So, did George Smith pay Mr. Ball for his silence?  A further investigation revealed that the money Mr. Ball had received was only $200, sent from his sons in California to pay for his trip there so he could live with them. An officer of the local bank assisted in his defense, and said that Mr. Ball had been in serious debt and did not inherit any amounts of money. To further prove this, a trip to his small farmhouse revealed all of his furniture to be cheap and purchased at various auctions. So Mr. Smith and Mr. Ball were both acquitted of their accusations.

Another curious piece of evidence came shortly after, a blood soaked handkerchief was found near the murder scene with the name “G.J. Ingram” monogrammed in it. But the police were at a loss. After an extensive search, no person with the name Ingram was found to be existing in the area.

After over a years worth of investigating and community outcry, the murder of Marietta Ball seemed to be as mysterious as when it first started. Many were accused, neighbors turned against each other and the community was easily a whole lot worse for wear. It seemed like the secrets would forever be lost to the cold ground of French Hill, the light of the moon masquerading those things that we’d never know.

But on October 14th, 1875, a shocking discovery was made. A French Canadian named Joseph LaPage was convicted of brutally murdering Josie Langmaid of Suncook, New Hampshire. And someone made a strange note that the way Josie was murdered was almost exactly the same as Marietta Ball’s murder. News traveled back to St. Albans and Mr. W.N. Abel of The St Albans Messanger recalled Joseph LaPage living in the French Hill area at the time of the murder. He contacted Justice Farnsworth of St. Albans, who immediately contacted officials in Suncook. LaPage had just became the latest suspect in the murder of Miss Ball.

Joseph LaPage

On January 13th, 1876,  Joseph LaPage was sentenced to appear in court, and was found guilty for both murders. On March 15th, he was sent to the gallows in Concord, New Hampshire. It was said that he loudly claimed his innocence from when he was first accused until just hours before he was hanged, when he choked out a sobbing confession. It seems the skeletons he was hiding finally found him.

But some questions remain. Why was Mr. Ball so determined to accuse George Smith of murder? What suspicions induced the community to suspect him to begin with? And who was G.J. Ingram? And there are some who argue that the evidence that linked Joseph LaPage to the murders wasn’t enough to convict him. So, if this is the case, did they hang the wrong person? Perhaps only the good night knows these answers as the softness of the summer attempts to sooth the community’s scars.

But this tragic tale has another ending. I was also told that Joseph LaPage was finally caught when his son, who somehow discovered his dark past, made his way to St. Albans and reported him to local authorities. But there doesn’t seem to be any record of this, making me believe this is the product of the re-shaping of a story as it travels through the years.

French Hill Today

Until recently, a friend of mine owned a beautiful piece of property on French Hill, comprised of mix woodlands and a vast beaver pond which, on summer nights, was a strikingly beautiful place to sit by under the songs of the cicadas, and she was the one who turned me onto this intriguing story and compelled me to research it.

She had no information about the murder until one day, an actual descendant of Marietta Ball stopped by her house, and asked permission to look around the property. Confused, she asked why, and the man filled her in on the story. He said he was looking for the place where Marietta’s body was found. But he also had a theory that Joseph LaPage’s house may have actually stood on the property as well, and was in hopes of finding the old foundation. Though the man couldn’t be certain, he assumed that after Marietta had been murdered, Joseph crossed a brook that ran through the property and went back to his house. But sadly, I’ll never know if he found what he was looking for.

But this was an interesting turn of events, because before that chance encounter, my friend swore her house was haunted. By what, she wasn’t certain. But both her and members of her family swore they felt uncomfortable in certain rooms of the house, and the stairway leading to the second floor. Feelings of being watched by some sort of dark entity were reported often. Now it seems a connection could be made. Was it in fact the ghost of Joseph LaPage who was haunting their house? Did he seek refuge on the wilds of French Hill in his afterlife? Or maybe, these uncomfortable feelings can be attributed to something else?

Another strange footnote to the story; Marietta Ball was buried in St Albans’ Greenwood Cemetery, and was given an elaborate headstone which was much nicer than most of the graves in the cemetery. But years of neglect and weather erosion have made the kind gesture into something sad and fading. Her grave site is also the only grave in the entire cemetery that faces East. I’ve heard a theory that it’s position was done deliberately, so it would be facing French Hill which arcs above the tree tops in the distance. Or maybe, it was a simple mistake?

So what lessons can we learn from this story? And will we remember them? I think its sad to say that the outcomes that were inspired by Marietta’s murder are very similar to what would happen even today. And when we rely on the justice system to handle such matters, can we honestly say that justice is really being served at times?  Or will these things be obscured by the solemn sounds of sirens wailing in the dark woods?

The "French School" indicates where the old school house once stood on French Hill Road, now nothing more than a foundation buried in the woods. The North-South road that runs to the left of it would have been the route that Marietta Ball had walked and met her unfortunate end on. Today, French Hill Road was extended to the East, and the road that Marietta walked became defunct. Only a short half mile portion remains of the original road, today's "Fred Lake Road".
The “French School” indicates where the old school house once stood on French Hill Road, now nothing more than a foundation buried in the woods. The North-South road that runs to the left of it would have been the route that Marietta Ball had walked and met her unfortunate end on. Today, the road that Marietta walked has long became defunct. Only a short half mile portion remains of the original road, a private road named “Fred Lake Road” The Page Farm is marked by the black dot at the southern end of the road, near the “902” elevation mark.

Links and sources: For a much more detailed look into the murder than what I have provided:

As it turns out, someone has written a good write up about the Suncook Murders

The Trial of Joseph LaPage, The French Monster, Philadelphia, 1876.

The very detailed write up “The East Hill Murders”, Ronald C. Murphy, 1983

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

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

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

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

Donate Button with Credit Cards

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What Dwells on Woodcrest Circle?

Recently, a good friend of mine just confessed to his childhood home being haunted, and if I had known then what I know now, I don’t think I would have ever dared step inside when I was a kid.

I had visited a few times before, and never thought anything strange about the place. I had no reason to feel uncomfortable there. But my friend could argue otherwise, and the things he finally relayed to me were nothing short of terrifying.

He grew up in the same neighborhood as me, a typical 1980s sub division of simple cookie cutter ranch homes built precisely around planned circles and cul-de-sacs all named after local trees that grow wild on the front lawns. Even today, as Milton continues to grow, the honeycomb of pot holed streets and homes that make up my neighborhood is still considered to be the largest development in town. A neighborhood so big, that most of my friends would often call me from their cellphones and complain that they were lost long after they had pulled out of my driveway to leave.

To understand what exactly went on in that house, it’s good to know a little of the history behind it. One of the first occupants of the small ranch house was your typical American nuclear family. A father, a wife and their children. Though almost nothing is known about the family who owned the house before my friend’s family did, the tragic events that exploded like find powder have seemed to forever linger in the atmosphere like oil on skin.

It was known that the happiness of that family had long been eroding, as the father spent most of his hours working his fingers down to dust, trying to provide for his family. But the problem was sadly beyond what a good paycheck could repair. One day, he came home from a grueling day of work, and noticed he was in the unusual position of walking into a quiet and empty house. His suspicious soon became fire as the night passed and his family still hadn’t returned home. Beginning to panic, he soon made frantic phone calls to just about everyone he knew, asking if they had seen his family. But no one had. A few days later, he would have his answer. His wife had waited until he left for work, taken the children, and left him for another man. To make things more devastating,  he found that she had been cheating on him for several years. Unable to deal with his betrayal and shame, he went into the bathroom and shot himself.

Years later, my friend’s family moved in. Because they had 4 children, more rooms were needed and the basement was eventually converted into 2 makeshift bedrooms. My friend recalls the basement right after they moved in. He said his first impression of the basement wasn’t a great one, saying it made him feel uncomfortable the moment he set foot down there. Towards the far end was an area that was fenced off from the rest of the basement. It was a giant cage type room, with walls made from 2x4s and chicken wire walls. Their landlord informed them that it used to be a dog cage, but there was just something eerie about it still. Eventually, the space that was the cage was converted into bedrooms.

My friend developed a fear of the basement; more specifically, the part of the basement that was his room. Things seemed normal after they had first settled in. But slowly, strange things began to happen.

He first realized that no matter the circumstances, it was always cold in the basement. He would report feeling phantom breezes at night and frigid temperature drops that would leave his room freezing compared to the rest of the house. Before his room had a door, he used a sheet that had been nailed to the wooden frame around it. Some nights, he reported waking up to the sheet blowing in some sort of invisible draft that seemed to manifest itself from nowhere. More peculiarly, the breezes only seemed to disturb the sheet, and didn’t touch anything else around. With no open windows or doors that could act as the scapegoat, the source of these phantom breezes remained a mystery. But that was nothing.

After some time had passed, he woke up to hearing the sound of something moving around on his carpet. As he lay awake listening, he eventually pin pointed the location of the strange noises; they were coming from the broken plastic remains of a Plasma Globe that broke at the foot of his bed, the broken pieces lay scattered on the floor. Now, it sounded like something was crawling around inside the broken plastic shell. Getting up to turn on his light, he scanned the carpet and the broken globe for the mysterious culprit, and found nothing. Turning off his light, he got back into bed with the intention of getting more sleep, but was soon woken up again to the same noises, only this time, they seemed faster and more frantic. Getting up again, he picked up the shards and put them in the garbage. Thinking that was the end, he got back into bed and fell asleep. But for weeks after, he continued to hear noises at night. This time, he described them as what sounded like chirping noises, like a bird would make. They were soft and delicate, and could never be traced. But he knew they were coming from inside his room.

As time progressed, the strange noises stopped as mysteriously as they had appeared. Things once again were uneventful until months later, he awoke one night to the sound of his computer chair moving. Through the dim light coming from outside his room, he witnessed the chair wheeling itself from the computer desk across his room and stop itself right at the foot of his bed. The basement floor was poured concrete and was level, there was no explanation for why the chair moved on its own. He got out of bed and pushed the chair back underneath the desk. Sometime later, he awoke again to find that the chair was back at the side of his bed! Only this time, the back of the chair was reclined – an impossible position without human help, as if something was sitting in it, and it was facing him as if whatever was sitting in the chair was observing him. After a few minutes, the chair straightened back up to its natural position, as if whatever had been sitting in it had gotten up. He watched the chair roll by itself across the room and rest against the wall.

These events seemed to space themselves out unpredictably, and for the most part, innocuous. But soon, the strange phenomenon became more intense and more interactive. He began waking up in all hours of the night for unexplained reasons. Feeling horribly uncomfortable, he would scan the dark shadows of his room. Meeting his gaze was a “shadow figure” standing near the basement doors that lead to a staircase that went outside, staring at him with red eyes that he described as “like cats eyes”. The shadow was reported as being very tall, and reached from floor to ceiling. But this didn’t happen only once. This happened for years, to a point where he went from being absolutely terrified of this mysterious entity, to becoming accustomed to it. Eventually, he came to the realization that he would wake up every night and see it staring at him from his doorway.

He began to have terrifying and powerful nightmares on a nightly basis, so incredibly intense and aggressive that he didn’t want to talk about them. But, he did recall a few that he remembered vividly. Once, he dreamed that he awoke in the middle of the night laying next to a dead girl in his bed. His eyes would open and he would find himself staring into her dead eyes, which he described as calm and soothing. But the rest of her was anything but. Her mouth gaped open and was infested with crawling worms. Sometimes he would freak out and scream, and like lightning, she would begin to eat him until he woke up in his trembling skin.

Another dream he had involved the same girl, only this time he woke up to a rotting hand coming up from his bedside and clutch his chest. That soon was followed by another hand, and eventually, her dead and rotting face. She opened her mouth and let out an agonizing scream of misery and sorrow for what seemed like hours until he woke up. An interesting side note is that after every single nightmare he would suffer through, he would always wake up and see that familiar shadow figure with the cats eyes staring at him from his doorway. The figure would always be in the same spot, but would never come in the room. Could there be a connection between this strange entity and his dreams?

Another night, he awoke to the chirping noises again. At this point, it had been some time since he had last heard them, so he was a little surprised as his memory was revived. But there was something else now. In the desolate moonlight that lit up his room, he reported seeing something truly terrifying that seemed to crawl and shamble along his floor. Extending from the basement doors to the door of his bedroom, he said he saw what he can best be described as a giant human back, without arms, legs or a head attached to it. It withered and twisted and convulsed across the floor, it’s bones looked like they’d pop out of its skin at any moment. He turned his head away, far too afraid to stare at whatever he was seeing. When he heard the chirping noises quiet down, he forced himself to look at his floor again, and whatever he had seen had vanished into the night.

Now, all of this admittedly seems a bit extreme, if not Hollywood in character. But, my friend isn’t one for lying, and his voice was trembling with such emotion and sincerity that I simply can’t believe that he would be having a laugh at my expense. And as I would soon find out, my theory would be proven correct.

A few nights ago, myself and another good childhood friend were enjoying fine Long Trail Coffee Stouts underneath soft Spring breezes that seemed safe and cool. Sitting on two chairs on his back deck, we often would meet up and let our conversations continue into the night, a great way to unwind from the despairs of the day. And somehow, our conversation turned to nostalgia and strange experiences, and eventually, it lead to my friend’s house.

I had mentioned that I wasn’t sure what to make of the claims that were told to me, I was more than a little skeptical, but he intervened and stopped me.

“I had a really strange experience there when I used to spend the night” he told me. “So, you believe that it’s haunted as well?” I asked, almost incredulously. He wasn’t sure what to think. Like me, he tries to see things logically, and even though he was a firsthand witness to a bizarre encounter there, he still had a hard time admitting to himself that he believed what he saw.

Years ago, when he was spending the night, he rolled over on the couch he was sleeping on, and his foot banged into something. His eyes slowly opened, trying to read the situation. This was strange, considering he knew before he went to bed, there was nothing at all that was near the couch that his foot should have bumped into. Eventually, he sat up and noticed that a computer chair was sitting beside the couch. That was strange, because before he went to bed, he recalled that the chair was in fact tucked underneath the computer desk at the other side of the room, a good 6 feet from where he was sleeping. What was it doing over here? He didn’t think much of it, but he noticed that the room was much colder than it had been. On the back of the computer chair, a blanket had been draped over it. Wanting some extra warmth, he quickly snatched the blanket from the chair and pulled it over him. When he grabbed the blanket, the chair expectantly started spinning. But 15 minutes later, he sat there watching the chair incredulously; it was still spinning at a continuous yet slow speed and showed no signs of slowing down. Then to his horror, the chair began to spin faster. In a scene that would only appear to most people on the silver screen, the chair began to spin faster and faster as if pushed by an unseen force, only to come to a direct stop suddenly, the front of the chair facing him. Needless to say, he preferred not to spend another night in that house again.

But there were other strange factors at play here. My friend recalled that his step dad began to suffer from terrible mood swings shortly after they had moved in the house. He would become violent, irrational and his tongue sharp and serpentine. I only met him a few times when I was much younger, and I saw him as an unfriendly type of person, but according to my friend, he was acting “out of character, even for him”. Eventually, the marriage was dissolved and he left the house. But soon after, his mother would report waking up with a body like imprint in her bed, as if someone had been sleeping beside her the entire time.

In a case such as this, a lot of questions remain, and not surprisingly, far more that can ever be answered.

If we were to believe that these events happened with no logical explanation, was there more than one thing troubling my friend and his family? Was it just a series of bizarre occurrences that seemed all too real? And, what sort of person in life was the man who killed himself? Was he kind and troubled, or were his abusive motives a reason why his family had left him? Admittedly, I was having a hard time debunking these claims.

My friend admitted that one night, he tried speaking to the shadow figure outside his door. “Well, what happened?” I asked curiously, my mind not being able to even predict his response. But he simply shrugged his shoulders and nonchalantly said “nothing”.

One theory is that if haunts are the responsibility of the angry and wounded spirit of the man who killed himself, he seems to have a strong dislike towards men, which is probably why my friend seemed to get the brunt of all that happened. Or perhaps, it was personal…

That was years ago, and they have long since moved and grown up. A peculiar ending to this story is that eventually, the strange phenomenon seemed to die out well before they sold the house, but the strange feeling of being watched remained until the day they left.  The house still stands today, and is currently being lived in. It’s been a few years now and it hasn’t been put up for sale, so my best assumption would be that maybe, whatever malevolent entity that plagued the house has perhaps moved on? But maybe the question is, if this is so, where did it go?

Posted on

Yankee Shangri-La

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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