weird – Page 6 – Obscure Vermont

December 3, 2012March 31, 2020

The Broken Tower

Winooski is a brawny old mill town built intentionally on a series of cascades on it’s namesake river that would power the woolen mills that built the city, and a prevalent French Canadian populace that affixed their surnames to street signs and brought down francophone media from Quebec. The textile mills both lifted the city up, and then let it fall when the industry went bust. The flood of 1927 was particularly harsh to business, when swells of rapid brownish watery destruction decimated most of the buildings along the riverfront. The mills never recovered fully, and went from the state’s largest employer, to limping along rather awkwardly until 1954 when they shuttered for good after they no longer landed government contracts when new synthetic fibers became the future.

The town was bruised for decades afterwards underneath economic blight, higher rates of poverty, and a humbling lack of identity. In the late 1970s, the one square mile burb made news when it ambitiously decided it was going to build a glass dome over the city to keep down the costs of heating prices in the winter, and partially for a publicity stunt inspired by a town meeting with lots of wine. That idea surprisingly almost happened, but was coffined in the 80s, when the Reagan administration came into power and decided that there were better things to spend money on.

A few more decades later, Winooski once again made headlines for another construction project; brazenly undertaking the largest downtown redevelopment project in state history, which simultaneously included the construction of a controversial rotary that was oddly blueprinted on a hill. It was intended to lessen traffic congestion where routes 2,7 and 15 met downtown, but instead confused and upset certain commuters and Winooski-ites, earning it the bad for business nickname “the circle of peril”. But their massive scale improvement project seemed to work, and years later, downtown Winooski has filled in with some of the best eateries in the Burlington area, a pretty enjoyable microbrewery and an awesome indie music festival which brings all sorts of converging artists into town.

Brawny industrial towns like Winooski have had their rises and falls, but if there is one good thing about old mill towns, is that their lasting impression comes in the form of admirable architecture. More precisely here, it’s spacious and handsome brick mills. Most of the old mill buildings have taken on new lives as very nice mixed office and apartment space, but a small vestige of Winooski’s raw and unrenovated industrial past can still be seen, if you know where to look.

Sulking behind the expansive brick edifice of the Woolen Mill, down in a recessed area of scraggly trees and the graveyards of stagnant mill ponds once formed by water entering through the low stone tunnels now being filled in by erosion, sits the crumbling remains of a brick tower.

These dangerous ruins were enigmatic to me, as I know practically nothing about early twentieth century mill operations, so with the help from my friend who was also the one who took me here, a little research was done and was able to shed some light on what this tower once was.

Basically, there is a large intake pipe at the top of the tower. Using gravity, the water flows from the river to the top of the tower.It then is diverted downwards into a turbine where the rushing water turns a wheel before being used for power generation. This turning wheel would have been connected to a shaft that ran into the mill to turn and power the equipment. After 1930 however, the turbine would likely have been repurposed, so instead of using water to create mechanical energy to turn the actual machines, the machines began to use electricity So the turbine would have been repurposed. Instead of turning a shaft and going into the mill, it turned a shaft that turned an electric generator and this power would have supplied the mill. Or, something perhaps very similar to the diagram below. (If you are using this blog for any sort of essay information, I encourage you to find a more reputable source)

Sure enough, there were the remnants of additional pipes and tunnels that formed a broken trail from this spot over to the bridge where the water levels were higher, making this a very plausible description of how this tower might have functioned.

But by looking at the crumbling, and rusted ruins today, they keep their secrets far from your presence, besides the strikingly obvious – this place is dangerous. The tower had made its mark on this part of the property since it’s construction, its shadow forever burning its impression into the wet ground around it, but a few more winters may finally bring this decrepit place down into the muddy recesses of the foul mill wastelands below it.

A surprisingly warm day for December 2nd in Vermont, I probably could have gotten away with just a flannel or a hoodie, but chose to bring a more protective layer just in case. And I’m glad I did. As we shambled over piles of soggy ground and driftwood to the arched entrance, the inside of the tower was noticeably colder – the air was dead inside. There would be no “safe” traveling, so much had fallen that we were constantly crawling over untold amounts of dirty bricks covered in slime and rust, underneath piles of the rotting wooden floors above that had long collapsed below.

Now this is where things became interesting. We climbed further inside the tower, and saw just what we were up against. Behind the massive bulk of debris infront of us, were very narrow crawl passages that hugged the dripping and filthy walls around the tower. To get inside any further, it would require us to squeeze through them. But to get there, we’d have to scale a 6 foot drop to a level below us, onto a series of rusted steel I beams that were glistening with ice, rust and slime. One wrong move, and a sprained ankle would be the least of your problems, as your body would tumble down into a dark rocky cavern beneath in a world where no one would hear your cries for help. Did we want to take this risk? Yes. So one by one, the both of us hoisted ourselves down the 6 foot drop, using the cold and dirty brick foundations as support, the bricks crumbling to dust in our hands. — Now this is where things became interesting. We climbed further inside the tower, and saw just what we were up against. Behind the massive bulk of debris in front of us, were very narrow crawl passages that hugged the dripping and filthy walls around the tower. To get inside any further, it would require us to squeeze through them. But to get there, we’d have to scale a 6 foot drop to a level below us, onto a series of rusted steel beams that were glistening with ice, rust and slime. One wrong move, and a sprained ankle would be the least of your problems, as your body would tumble down into a dark rocky cavern beneath in a world where no one would hear your cries for help. Did we want to take this risk? Yes. So one by one, the both of us hoisted ourselves down the 6-foot drop, using the cold and dirty brick foundations as support, the bricks crumbling to dust in our hands.

At this point, our excitement had gotten the better of us, gawking at the incredible textures to photograph, the industrial gears frozen in rust and time as the shadows became wild. The inevitable and comic question of what the cold slimy substance our hands were touching was mentioned a few times, as well as how surprised we were that we hadn’t ran into any animals yet – these dark and cavernous ruins would make the perfect home for a mischievous creature.

Turning to the realization that we had spent an hour or longer (most definitely longer) inside a dank crumbling tower, and we were beginning to feel the effects. My hands were numb, and we were more than filthy. “I think it’s time we head out” I said. But it was then I realized exactly how much work we went through to get to our current position, and all that clambering and wedging through those tight damp spaces back to the entrance just didn’t excite me. “Think we can fit down there, and climb out that way?” I asked, pointing to the dark area below the steel beams that suspended us above the pit. Below us, was a crumbling shadowy world of filth and fallen bricks, with a tunnel type entrance out to the former mill pond. Going out that way would save us a lot of time, if we could make it. “We’re not 16 anymore” I jokingly called up to my friend – I am not nearly as limber as I was. Down there, it was so cold, icicles were forming on the pipes. “I’ll give you $5 if you eat one of those” my friend called above me. I declined the offer to fatten my wallet and made my way out. He soon followed.

Self Portrait. Here, you can get a good idea of perspective, from where I climbed down and where my friend was standing.

It’s incredible to think about the ingenuity and complex systems behind how these mills harnessed the natural water power of the falls. Today all that remains of Winooski’s industrial legacy are the buildings, a few relics in a museum, and little else. The Winooski skyline as viewed from Burlington is a great picture and one of contrasts, the Champlain Mill and the new downtown symbolically rising next to it.

Nearby, on the rocky ledges of the Winooski River Gorge, there were a few more sites of interest, so before we wrapped up our adventure, we took a short ride from Downtown Winooski to Colchester.

The Walls

Years ago, you had to stumble your way along a riverbank of roots, swamps and thick northern jungle to reach this cool urban locality. Nowadays, there’s a path and a designated natural area that brings you here, which in a way is sort of a bummer.

The area underneath the interstate bridge that spans the Winooski River in Winooski city is colloquially called “the walls”, a youth minted term which is most likely a reference to the humongous concrete pylons supporting one of the busiest bridges in the state overhead. Those pillars are sprayed with some of the best graffiti and spray paint art in the state. In my humble opinion anyways. The robust and colorful artwork is always evolving, with some tags in seemingly difficult to reach places that conjure more questions and hint at the engines and the love of those who do their thing here.

I’ve met some local taggers down there before on a summers afternoon years ago. Most people you run into are friendly folk who will strike up a conversation with you. The other half are either people like me, or teenagers who are smoking swisher sweet cigars they got from the local Maplefields convenience store having fires along the beach areas. The area is a neat one, which is undoubtedly why it draws so many eclectic folks. It’s isolated and a bit of an inconvenience to get to, with thick vegetation, sandy river bottom beaches and the gradual limestone rises of the Winooski gorge giving it a dislocated feel from the pulse of Burlington, but never too far from the hum of the highway.

There is an abandoned hydroelectric station amongst the ledges and evergreen forests of the gorge walls, but as we found out, access is almost impossible, and unless you want to risk a security encounter and some torn clothes as a result of climbing a very sturdy fortified fence. As I later found out from someone, if we had dared to climb down into there ruins, we would have been met with several feet of rapid flowing river water and foul mud that now flows freely through the complex. In this case, it was best just to admire it from a distance.

An area landmark, and a cool one at that, a double railroad trestle bridge spanning the turbulent waters of the Winooski Gorge. — An area landmark, the double truss railroad bridge spanning over a ledgy oxbow river bend in the Winooski Gorge. Locals mistake this impressive feat of engineering as a haunted trestle, where a little girl was struck and killed by a train in the 60s. But that’s actually another truss bridge down the river a ways, crossing into Burlington’s intervale. It’s called “the blue bridge” because according to legend, the girl’s ghost hangs around the bridge and is a pale blue, like an oxygen deprived corpse. If the real blue bridge wasn’t weird enough, I’ve heard tons of stories of sketchy characters who hang out on the bridge. I once ran into a young couple (I assume) dressed in dollar store magician and assistant costume, with top hat and plastic wand, sitting in the middle of the train bridge and quarreling. I’ve seen them 2 additional times afterward. That’s an old ghost story though, not one I think many younger Winooskians are aware of nowadays. It’s easy to see why the double truss bridge would be the assumed monument to tragedy, given its striking location and unique construction. Just make sure you’re not eligible for a statistic if you decide to walk the tracks.

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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.

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November 28, 2012March 31, 2020

The Terrors of Duxbury Road

Duxbury Road – a strip cut through the mountainous topography of the Green Mountain spine. Starting as a paved road in tiny Jonesville, it quickly turns to dirt on the Bolton town line, and then becomes a desolate drive of potholed thoroughfare on its way to Duxbury, that rolls up and down steep hardwood shrouded ledges with exposed granite cliff walls that form the banks of the great Winooski River, which meanders its way in an east to west direction through the mountains here, around gravel bar islands and muddy banks. It’s a beautiful drive, especially in the summer when the road fills in with greenery and becomes shadowy, even on the brightest of days.

Perhaps it’s the dark forests and the stunning topography that gives the road it’s many disturbing legends. The tales I have been told are so obscure, that even many locals are unaware of them.

A friend of a friend, which is often how these tales go, was the first one to tell me that something was off about Duxbury Road. He finally agreed to sit down with me one night and talk about it. Duxbury Road has been rumored to be haunted for decades, but the source of activity here is almost impossible to uncover, and yet could fill a few chapters in an encyclopedia of urban legends.

According to my friend, who I’ll call “Adam” for story telling purposes, many houses along the road have experienced “something” bizarre, but residents don’t like talking about such things, and in classic Vermont stoicism, keep quiet about it. But occasionally, they’ll talk amongst themselves.

Family troubles

Though Adam couldn’t offer any incite on other people, he did have quite a few stories of his own. As a kid, Adam and his younger sister lived on an old farmhouse on Duxbury Road. For him, the weirdness started with one harrowing encounter on a summer night. His father was sitting in his armchair watching TV, when his five year old sister came out into the living room and stood next to him. His dad turned his head and smiled at her, and asked her what she wanted. “Oh nothing, I just wanted to tell you that Grandpa wanted you to know that he’s proud of you”.

He remembered that his father’s face fell, and was at a loss for words.Their grandfather had died long before she was born. Trying to compose himself, he asked her what she meant. She said that his father sometimes came to visit her at night, and when he leaves, he walks up the hill next to their house, but he has no feet. He wanted him to know that he was doing a great job raising his family, and that he would always be around when he needed him, which was something he always said before he passed away. He walked into another room and came back with an old photo album, and she was able to point out his father, despite never seeing a photo of the man before. Adam said that his father was very distressed for weeks after the incident.

Shortly after that unusual night, his little sister said she had an encounter with another family ghost, but this time she claimed to see the ghost of their dad’s dead brother, while playing hide and seek outside.

After that, the entire family began feeling uncomfortable while inside the house. Everyone recalled at one time or another, they felt like they were being watched.

Then one night, Adam recalled a terrifying incident that happened to him. He remembers waking up abruptly and becoming aware that something was in the room with him. Though he didn’t see anything, he felt its presence. Then, he felt a weight press down on the edge of the bed, and the corner of his mattress sunk down, as if someone was sitting on it. Then, he said he felt what was like an arm clasp around his leg. Too afraid to look, he screamed “leave me alone!”, and whatever it was, vanished.

More things continued to happen. His mom was sitting in the living room one night when everyone else was in bed, when she was startled to hear a noise coming from outside, what she had described as someone dragging a stick across the tin siding of their house, and stopped right underneath the window she was sitting near. She flicked on the floodlights and went to investigate, but no one was outside.

As Adam and his sister grew older, the strange disturbances seemed to fade away. But Adam had a theory. He told me that whatever was behind the supernatural phenomenon at their house was probably playful by nature, and saw him and his sister as playmates, and when they grew up, it no longer had a companion.

More Strange Happenings

Months later, I was having lunch with a friend, and our conversation soon morphed into Vermont weirdness, as we would try to outdo one another with an account that we were sure the other one had never heard of. That brought me to bring up Duxbury, and my friend became animated. “Duxbury you say? That’s strange, I had a friend who grew up in Duxbury, and he told me about a haunted road he knew about as a kid. It might be the same road” His friend grew up in Duxbury in the 50s, and recalls that at the time, the Duxbury Road had a reputation for being haunted. One of the more well known haunts was the ghost of a little girl who was hit and killed by a train after falling out of the back of a moving wagon. Apparently, there was a farmhouse down the road from her fatal accident with a shrine dedicated to the dead girl in the living room.

Another story tells of an old curmudgeonly German hermit who lived on Robbins Mountain with a pack of dogs. Very little is known about him, but one variation of the story was that the hermit was said to be a lunatic, and people knew best to avoid him. The man eventually died and the dogs went wild and dangerous. They continued to roam the slopes of Robbins Mountain, occasionally venturing near a farm or a house and killing livestock and scaring children. The story was continued to be told afterwards, but by then the dogs were ghost dogs, and has now seemed to mysteriously have been forgotten, just as the hermit who inspired the legend.

According to other legends, an unruly band of squatters once inhabited the area, and at one time long ago, the woods were home to a vicious pack of Catamounts. But these were all predictably untraceable things to uncover further.

Shadow Figures

Towards the Jonesville section of Duxbury Road, there is an old schoolhouse that was renovated into a private residence. According to some people, there is something strange about the place.

My friend Adam recalls another bizarre story that was told to him from someone with a firsthand experience. Across from the schoolhouse sat another old house that a man he once knew lived in. One night, the man awoke from his slumber and couldn’t get back to sleep. For whatever reason, he had a yen to look out the window near his bed, which faced the schoolhouse across the road. He pulled back the curtains and peered out into the night. It was almost like something was directing the man where to look, as his gaze was pulled up to the tower on top of the schoolhouse. Inside that tower, he faintly saw the silhouette of a man, and it was looking at him.

Unnerved by this, he pulled back the drapes and blamed the strange visual on being sleep deprived. He rolled back in bed and tried to forget about it, but for some reason, he couldn’t shake the weird image of the figure in the tower. Curiosity got the better of him, and he looked out the window again. This time, he noticed the tower was empty, but soon spotted the familiar dark outline of the man, this time staring at him from a window downstairs.

Wide awake, he tried to find some logic in the bizarre situation. He looked back out the window once again to see if the mysterious figure would still be there. This time, the man was standing in the middle of the road. Terrified now, he turned on all the lights in the house and waited until morning. Nothing further happened, and he never saw the figure again, but he never forgot about that night.

What exactly is going on here? What could be behind so many strange experiences on Duxbury Road? Do strange things still happen today, and are dark tales still told?

Most of the activity on Duxbury Road could very well be attached to the very land the road exists on, acting as some sort of paranormal conduit. It is said that the area is the site of an unrecognized Indian burial ground, with artifacts and human remains being unearthed over the past few centuries as the area became developed and farmed. But my attempt to inquire further about such claims were met with dead ends, putting me right back to where I started.

Could there be some sort of supernatural or awesome property in the hills of Duxbury that the Native Americans recognized? Or perhaps, these strange occurrences are nothing more than the product of yarn spinning and generations of story tellers. I suppose only the Green Mountains know for sure, and they can sure keep a secret.

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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.

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November 25, 2012March 31, 2020

The World’s Largest Tower of Filing Cabinets

I think this is one of the first Vermont oddities most Chittenden County denizens are introduced to, because of its easy to find location in a slowly gentrifying neighborhood. I lived in Burlington’s cool south end district for a few years before I moved onto other apartments, which I’m now regretting.

Sometimes the best adventures are in your own backyard. Or at least they can keep the doldrums away. One of my favorite ways to spend my days in Burlington was to go scouting. For what? That totally depended on wherever I walked with my camera. Thankfully, Burlington is a very cool and eclectic city.

Down on Flynn Avenue, you can’t avoid spotting the world’s largest tower of filing cabinets in a weedy field near Switchback Brewery. But…why?

These seemingly random filing cabinets were actually very much intentional. The strange tower was built in 2002 by local artist Bren Alvarez as an art project, and a silent jab at bureaucracy. It stands in the path of the ill-fated “Southern Connector“, an interstate highway that was never built – the blighted urban planning failure actually sits a block south, and was put on indefinite hiatus because of a swampy, polluted barge canal just a bit north. There are 38 drawers, each represents the number of years of paperwork accumulated by the project when the thing was fabricated.

But that’s not all this peculiar monument tells you. All over its rusting structure are urban hieroglyphics – hinting at local taggers and mysterious visitors who pass by and leave their marks in their own way. Names, pseudonyms and a rather cool map of Burlington are just a few of the things you can find etched onto the sides. Local lore has it that at the very top drawer, that lies slightly open, lies a hidden geocache – or at least some sort of mysterious object stashed up there, waiting for someone to see. But I couldn’t confirm is that was true or not. There definitely isn’t an official geocache listed on the website here.

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

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

November 13, 2012March 31, 2020

Nostalgic Route 9: Abandoned Motels, Vintage Signs

Recently, I had my inaugural voyage to the Adirondacks of Upstate New York, an area I’ve became quite interested in. Lake Champlain, the massive body of freshwater roughly 500 square miles in size, forms the boundary between Vermont and New York, and with a limited amount of crossings to the next state, as well as a lack of reasons for your blogger to go visit, the state of New York was practically an unfamiliar exotic world to me, an undisputed disparity from the weird bubble that is Vermont. One of the most common things I hear flatlanders say about Vermont, is something like; “man, do you have any idea how weird Vermont is? Seriously, you guys are like a cult up here. It’s almost like you don’t belong in the rest of the United States”, and sometimes they eye me with momentary awe. And I’m immensely proud of that.

The Vermont side of the lake is gentler and up kept, while the New York side is wild and grungy, wallowing in its nostalgia. Boulders and forests slide into the lake, bordered by rural stretches of crumbling highways and tumbledown homes. The Adirondack experience is a multi-faceted one – a region that doesn’t give up all its secrets, but doesn’t hide its scars. A place that’s vast, desolate and intriguing.

Meeting up with a good friend who is familiar with the region, he agreed to show me around some of his favorite haunts on a rather pleasant November day. Crisscrossing the region’s roads in the most inefficient manor possible, we decided to dedicate our escapade to a particular hue; the scores of old motels, vacation cabins and awesomely unkempt vintage signage and their visage of deterioration.

Everything related to this goal can be found along U.S. Route 9, where much of the area’s notoriety once came from. The route cuts through this huge region in a north south direction between the Adirondack Mountains and Lake Champlain. At one point, Route 9 was the original superhighway to the North Country before the Adirondack Northway, also known as Interstate 87, was built. In Route 9’s well traveled heyday, it was crawling with people tromping through its roadside attractions, curio, and motels which made lasting impressions in some tangible way. Today, a journey down Route 9 is more of a reflection of one of the more grimy truths of reality; impermanence. It’s now a desolate and forlorn drive through almost uninterrupted miles of forest, which is often sick and scraggily looking, as the Adirondack Northway carries most traffic now. But it’s a fascinating drive to me.

The landscape changes dramatically from the unanimated city of Plattsburgh and neighboring town of Keeseville as Route 9 heads south towards the tiny town of North Hudson and the ruins of Frontier Town, a frontier themed amusement park that was once the blood and pride of an otherwise easily missed town. The areas around Plattsburgh and Keeseville are lined by mid century motel establishments and their gimmicky retro signs complete with wondering arrows, neon lights and sharp angles; all designed to capture the travelers’ attention. Further south, unvarying one room wooden cabins are scattered in the midst of otherwise scraggly fir forests and increasingly long distances of highway with no signs of life for miles. Depressed hamlets like Lewis and New Russia spring out of the untamed forest like some sort of northern mirage, but are easily forgotten within minutes.

We decided the best route to New York would be The Grand Isle Ferry. From there, it would be a short drive down Route 314 to the destination Route 9 in Plattsburgh. The winds were incredibly fierce, the lake was choppy and full of whitecaps. Because of this, the ferry ride over was twice as long, as the captain attempted to navigate the rough waters safely, the boat viciously rocking back and forth and the waves spraying over onto the deck. For the fun of it, we got out of the car and attempted to get a few pictures of the rough conditions, but my, uh, sea legs had 25 years of inexperience working against me. The boat was rocking so badly that it was almost impossible to gain my balance. Admitting defeat, it was back in the car for me.

The choppy waters of Lake Champlain from the Grand Isle ferry.

While taking pictures of this sign, the owner of the motel happened to be walking by, giving us a strange look. To relieve some of the tension, we told her we liked her sign, and asked how old it was. She scratched her head in thought, and said it's been here since the mid 50s. — While taking pictures of this sign, the owner of the motel happened to be walking by, giving us a strange look. To relieve some of the tension, we told her we liked her sign, and asked how old it was. She scratched her head in thought, and said it’s been here since the mid 50s. “I can’t believe you guys want to take a picture of it” she said laughing.

Out of the city limits now, Route 9 returns to stark wilderness. With the motels of Keeseville now gone, the desolation is now occasionally broken by crumbling roadside cabins shrouded in growth, with a decaying sign out front, their paint long faded and neon tubes hanging loosely around the sides.

Cabin Set #1

Cabin Set #2

These cabins were practically in someone's front yard. — These cabins were practically in someone’s front yard.

Cabin Set #3

I found these to be interesting because of their unique hillside perch – and their remote location – there was nothing else around for several miles, making me think that these were sort of a “last chance” affair.

Now the landscape changed again from the cramped rustic abandoned cabins to abandoned motels.

Abandoned Motel #1

This abandoned motel seemed to be relativity up kept, its dated architecture looking almost as crisp as its heyday. The lawn was kept mowed, and the owners lived across the street in another former motel, which I suppose wasn’t very surprising.

Abandoned Motel #2

This motel was more desolate then the first one, done in a kitschy in a rustic log theme, which was inspired by the defunct amusement park, Frontier Town, which was just down the road. The crumbling parking lot had almost returned to a wild state overran with weeds, and the long front porch was becoming encroached with fir trees growing slowly inside it. This was the first place we noticed that hosted transient people. Some of the rooms had been broken into, and the obvious signs of human presence were everywhere, but thankfully none were around when we arrived.

An abandoned playground weighed down by the desolation of the forest.

Frontier Town

Down the road is the uninteresting town of North Hudson, nothing more then a collection of ramshackle homes and trailers amidst the scraggly woods. But years ago, North Hudson was home to one of the most beloved tourist destinations in the Adirondacks; Frontier Town.

In 1951, an enterprising man named Art Benson chose the woods of North Hudson to be the home for his new vision; a theme park that would bring the wild west to upstate New York. He had no income, no background in construction or anything related to running a theme park, and yet, with ambition and bearing his charismatic personality, he managed to pull off one of the most beloved tourist traps in the Adirondacks. Decorated like a primitive frontier town of the 19th century and amusing it’s guests with interactive dioramas from folklore, popular culture and history, the park continued it’s role as a compelling spectacle until 1983, when Benson sold the park to another development firm, who closed the park in 1989, and reopened it shortly after with new attractions to try and lure more people to make up for the park’s dwindling audience. By 1998, Frontier Town closed for good, after being discombobulated by dropping finances and the latest victim of changing trends; the new notion that it was now dated and politically incorrect.

The vast property was seized in August 2004 by Essex County for past-due property taxes. Today, the park is a humble collection of ruins rotting in the woods, or along Route 9, which is where the main entrance was. The property is skirted by a collection of abandoned motels and restaurants that now look rather out of place in town.

There have been a few special interest groups organized with the goal to restore Frontier Town, and have it labeled as a historic landmark. But so far, none have been successful. Nearby the property is the seedy Gokey’s Trading Post, which has a few pieces of Frontier Town memorabilia for those looking for some nostalgia.

To read more about Frontier Town, you can click this link to be taken to my blog entry on that.

Abandoned Motel at the entrance to Frontier Town

this motel also came with a simple playground for the kids, which admittedly looked more disappointing than fun

From the motel parking lot, one of the remaining buildings of Frontier Town could be seen - a former restaurant and gift shop against the late Adirondack sun. — From the motel parking lot, one of the remaining buildings of Frontier Town could be seen – a former restaurant and gift shop against the late Adirondack sun.

DSC_0046_pe — Driving through abandoned roads still adorned with battered street lamps and the ruins of the remaining buildings is an eerie experience. Years ago, this area used to be packed with tourists, noises and life – today the only sounds are the mountain winds and the hum of traffic from Route 9.

Side Note: There is a ghost town in the mountains behind Frontier Town. If you’re curious, click on here to read about it.

DSC_0052_pe — In addition to the numerous motels, cabins and restaurants that are abandoned here – we found out that the interstate exit that once served Frontier Town was also abandoned as well. This abandoned Citgo station sat a few yards away from the exit ramps. Here, a poor traveler pulled into the parking lot and was panicking. “Hey guys, do you know where a gas station is?” We told him there was on in Schroon Lake, 10 miles down the road. His face dropped. “shit. I don’t think I can make it” he sighed. We watched him pull out and turn onto Route 9. I hope he made it before it was too late.

Frontier Town is such a large property that I would need to devote an entire day to see it, which I hope to plan.

“Dysfunction Junction”

Heading back up Route 9, we drove through a unique, bizarre intersection at Routes 9 and 73 in New Russia, a hamlet of Elizabethtown. When Route 73 hits Route 9, the lanes split off in separate directions, crossing each other in a crazed and seemingly random pattern before coming together again. Everytime I’ve driven through it, I’ve wondered: why does this intersection exist? And the first few times – Where do I go?

A chance find on a Google search provided me with some answers. The locals call this “Dysfunction Junction”. The intersection was built in 1958, using a design that has been instituted (with slightly variations) in other areas of the state. The design is a “bulb type-T intersection” that “favors the heavier right-turn movement from the upper to the lower left leg of the intersection. Sight distances are excellent and approach speeds are approximately 40 miles per hour.”

So why was this design chosen for this spot? We have to go back to Route 9’s heyday as the main artery from Plattsburgh and points South. Before the Northway was built, Route 9 suffered far worse traffic congestion as it does now. Before the construction, a simple stop sign was in place, which overtime was unable to handle the flow of moving traffic. The design allows Route 9 traffic to flow through without stopping, while anyone continuing on 73 would have to wait. Today, they’d probably build a roundabout instead. While this design may have made sense in the 1950s, today’s traffic patterns have changed. But not everything thinks it’s a bad design. “If you just follow the signs, you’ll be alright” says one indifferent local.

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

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

October 31, 2012March 31, 2020

Requiem On The Missisquoi Banks

The sad reality that winter was on its way was all too evident as me and a friend set out for a journey into Northern Vermont. Most of the hillsides were grey and barren and the grass had long lost its summer sheen. However in Downtown Saint Albans, the stately Maples in Taylor Park still retained their Red and Orange leaves, an ideal ceiling for the bustling gathering on the sprawling lawn. Out of Saint Albans, Route 105 runs up and down the rolling hills of Franklin County’s farm country, through a jejune landscape that even the sun and her warming light had a hard time cheering up. The brisk winds scurrying the dead leaves around in swirling movements battered the front windshield. We drove through interesting small towns and villages such as Enosburg Falls, East Berkshire and the more hardscrabble Richford to the North, communities once far larger and more prosperous 100 years ago, now only hinted by fading landmarks and regal architecture beating in and out of time.

But this trip would in no way go the way I had hoped it would go. We had a particular destination in mind, and drove an hour and a half to get there, with little more then hope and determination and a general idea of where we were going. But sadly, a little more research and planning would have been helpful. The property in question was heavily fortified, with a very imposing chain link fence capped with barbed wire that ran not only at the roads edge, but jutted deep back into the scraggly North woods with no end in sight. To make matters worse, the already rough road had no shoulder to park on, and the front gate of the property was in the middle of 2 tumbledown trailer homes, neither of which we felt comfortable being near. Admitting defeat, we had no choice but to turn away with heavy hearts and uprooted minds. Now the question was what were we going to do with the rest of our day. We inched up the slopes of the Green Mountains as the road climbed around a deep set beaver pond before cresting at the top of the hill, yielding brilliant views of Richford and Quebec, all lost somewhere in a thick haze that pitied the changing of the seasons. I plan on returning to this place, with permission to access the property I hope – So I’ll save revealing this location for another entry.

As we drove back into the crumbling streets of Richford, we debated what to do next. We had seen some interesting old houses and other picture worthy things on the drive up, so I figured we might as well make use of our trip. Richford had beauty in its tough skin and Enousburg Falls showcased an impressive array of Victorian architecture and an attractive brick downtown complete with an opera house and well preserved painted brick advertisements. Plus, the Victorian ruins of the former Kendal Factory sat in the middle of town, the sagging facade and vacant windows are always interesting to photograph.

As we approached one of the many Missisquoi Valley Rail Trail crossings, there was some sort of form in the woods that only offered a fleeting glimpse of it’s existence as we passed it. Curious, and wanting to kill more time, we turned around to try to get a better look. There was indeed something sulking in the river bottom forest, and it was abandoned. The property had grown completely wild and was untamed, but there were 4 wheeler trails that cut across the area, and they seemed well maintained, so someone had to use them, and often. But what was this place?

I had no idea what sort of ruins I was walking around, but the strange beauty of the ruins along the Missisquoi banks, ensnared with twisting roots and moss more then made up for the missing information. Wondering below the Willow trees, more ruins emerged out of their slumber. Large cement structures, covered with moss were accepting their fate, as the snarled skeletons of tree routes which are working on destroying all evidence of this odd ruin. Peering inside, I looked at 2 subterranean rooms that look like they went far below the Earth’s surface, but were so filled with trash, leaves and dead branches that it was impossible to tell. I thought about climbing down into one, but quickly decided against it. The chambers smelled strongly of stale air, dampness and rot. Who knew what was waiting for me down there.

I made my way towards the stone building through waist high weeds that tangled themselves around my body and made passage extremely difficult. The building was only a single room, its floor marred with holes where former machinery most likely once sat. Most evidence of it’s industrial past had long been removed – its cold cinder block walls the eternal witnesses to its secrets. My best guess was it was some sort of mill. I noticed a rather vivid “No Trespassing” warning written on the front doors, in sharpie. An odd note to this warning was the person who wrote it, dated it at June 30, 1955 and then signed his name to his warning.

Having a blog can be a great resource, especially when readers are kind enough to share their information and experiences. This was one such case, where a commenter was friendly enough to put the puzzle pieces together for me, and with a little more research via the Montgomery Historical Society, I had more possible clues. These ruins may very well be all that remains of the Sampsonville Mill, a satellite of the former Atlas Plywood Company. With their main headquarters in Montgomery, they also owned separate mills in North Troy, Richford (Sampsonville) and Montgomery. Because Montgomery and the surrounding towns had some of the finest veneer timber in the United States, and ready access to water power and the railroad, the region proved to be an ideal place for the Atlas Company. The company boasted that its satellite locations provided the company and the communities it served with jobs, but kept the facilities small enough to be human scale and to prevent crowded and cramped conditions. It was also said that this was to prevent any labor organizers from unionizing. The Atlas Plywood Company was probably most noted for their fine Victrola’s. Sadly the company went out of business by the 1950s due to the popularity of radios and changes in the packaging industry. The company’s headquarters building can still be seen in the small village of Montgomery Center. As of 2008, it was converted into a ski lodge.

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

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

October 20, 2012March 31, 2020

Emily’s Bridge?

Perhaps no other haunted location in Vermont is as fabled as Emily’s Bridge, and it’s arguable that because it’s a covered bridge, this storied construction turned celebrity is distinctively a Vermont monstrosity. Look in any book of ghost stories and local lore written in the New England area, and Emily’s Bridge is almost sure to be included.

Growing up, I heard the legends of Emily’s Bridge, as most kids did. And as a curious teenager, I made a midnight expedition to the bridge as many other teenagers did, all hoping to catch a glimpse of Emily’s ghost and perhaps, witness her sorrow and fury firsthand. But the only monstrous thing we saw were other disrespectful teenagers in large numbers, partying and drinking at the bridge. My Emily’s Bridge interest died almost as soon as it started.

To put things in perspective here, let’s start off with the legend that started it all. Emily’s Bridge actually has an official name; The Gold Brook Bridge, but most Vermonters forgo that for it’s more popular nickname.

At first glance, this rustic and unremarkable covered bridge looks like the myriad of other similar bridges found in Vermont and New England, it certainly doesn’t look “haunted”. Built in 1844, this simplistic, one lane 50-foot span is the oldest covered bridge in the country. It’s builder, John N. Smith of nearby Moscow, an obscure hamlet within the town of Stowe, bragged that it would last forever. Perhaps he was right. But this bridge is infamous for its resident ghost rather than its historical and structural accomplishments.

So who is Emily, and why does she haunt the bridge? That seems to remain a mystery because no one is quite sure of her identity. The most commonly told story is that Emily was a young Stowe woman in the 1800s who fell in love with a man who for reasons unknown, her family disproved of. Her family forbid her to marry. In retaliation, the two love struck teenagers decided to elope on The Gold Brook Bridge at midnight.

Emily made it to the bridge and waited. The appointed hour came and went, and the man never showed up. She was devastated. She couldn’t go back home, everyone would find out what happened, and she would be humiliated as well as heartbroken. Seeing no other way out, she hanged herself from a rafter on the bridge. Now in spirit form, her bridge haunting occurrence apparently decides to bring terror and tomfoolery to certain folks who pass through the bridge. She’s still waiting for her long-departed lover, getting angrier and more despaired by the year.

Emily’s Bridge seems to be a sore subject for many Stowe residents, and quite honestly, I couldn’t think of many towns that a haunted covered bridge could be more out of place in.

Stowe is a small town that was rolled over by wealthy out of staters (known by Vermonters as “flatlanders”), because of it’s reputable ski resort on the lofty slopes of Mount Mansfield – Vermont’s tallest elevation.

The road that leads up to the resort is state route 108, which is lined with pricey alpine themed hotels and tourist attractions, before wedging through Smugglers’ Notch, a rocky mountain pass with a 200 year old history of titular smugglers, and more recently, tractor trailers and tour buses getting stuck up on the narrow switchbacked road despite the tons of signs telling larger vehicles not to drive there.

While Stowe likes the attention gained with the tourism industry, Emily’s Bridge draws the sort of attention many residents could do without. But, the two are hopelessly tangled up in one another.

That being said, I had already decided not to include the story of Emily’s Bridge in this blog. I didn’t want to write about the same Vermont stories that I found were in almost every book on weird things Vermont. I wanted to be different. But that was until I found myself having coffee with author, folklorist and friend Joseph Citro.

As par usual, our conversation turned to the bizarre very quickly. As the waitress came over and topped off our coffee, the steam instantly fogging my glasses, Joe looked at me with musing eyes. “Chad, you know the story of Emily’s Bridge, right?” He sort of laughed at his own question after he had asked it. Of course I had.

“Yeah Joe, hasn’t everyone?” I returned, snickering myself. “Ok, but do you know the real story behind Emily’s Bridge?” I took a sip of my coffee and looked at him, my attention grabbed.

This is where the story got good, in my own opinion. As it turns out, not only was Vermont’s most infamous ghost story a well-spun yarn, but he happened to know the woman who created the story. When all was said and done, I found the real story of Emily’s Bridge far better than the conventional one.

The story of Emily’s Bridge doesn’t go back to the 1800s, but rather much more recently, in the 1970s. A woman by the name of Nancy Wolfe Stead claimed that she was the one who created the story of Emily to scare local youth. There was a swimming hole somewhere near Stowe and Morrisville. She remembers making up the story of the bridge to amuse the kids. At the time, there was a huge surge in the occult and the paranormal in the flypaper that is popular culture, especially with films like The Exorcist that had recently debuted. She was also the one who came up with the name Emily.

Curiously enough, a little digging uncovered that no information about any Emily has been found prior to 1970. What Nancy probably didn’t expect however, was her story to grow in popularity. It soon spread far beyond the limits of Stowe. It is quite possible that the story of Emily’s Bridge became fixed in paranormal concrete when a woman named Valerie Welch started “Stowe Tours” and the bridge, and Emily, became part of the presentation.

I reached out to the Stowe Historical Society for answers, to see if they could offer anymore incite into Emily’s Bridge and the story behind it. A few days later, I received a friendly reply from a woman named Barbara Barawand. Now, the pieces of this complicated urban myth were slowly coming together.

Interestingly enough, there are no records of anyone named Emily dying on the Gold Brook Bridge. But, a tragedy did take place there. It happened around 1920 when a little girl fell off the bridge and died when her skull was dashed off the boulders below. There are reports from people who have had tea with an elderly woman who lives near the bridge, and she remembers when the accident on the Gold Brook Bridge happened. She was about 10 at the time.

To make things more interesting, the Gold Brook Bridge may not even be the “real” Emily’s Bridge. There used to be another covered bridge just down the road near the Nichols Farm near Route 100, until it burned down in 1932 and was replaced by the current concrete span still in use today. There were brief records of a death happening on the old covered bridge, but the details were lost with time. Could this have been the real Emily’s Bridge? Barbara suggests that if there is a ghost, it is a possibility that after the bridge burned down, the ghost sought refuge upstream in the Gold Brook Bridge, which is now Stowe’s last remaining covered bridge. Or maybe, the legend was simply transplanted to the other bridge.

It seems the story is just that, and the legendary bridge which has burned itself into memory of many isn’t the location it is most identified with. But there is more to this story. Reports claiming Emily’s Bridge was haunted didn’t manifest themselves into local folklore until around 1948, many years after the aforementioned suicide of Emily. The bridge became known as “the haunted bridge” but the story of Emily didn’t exist. So if the bridge had a reputation then, perhaps visitors were getting frightened by something entirely different? If so, what was it?

In addition to my growing research, I found that there are also various accounts of why Emily’s ghost haunts the bridge. In no particular order:

(1.) She hanged herself after her boyfriend failed to show up for a midnight rendezvous

(2.) On the day of her marriage she was trampled to death by runaway horses

(3.) She was on her way to her wedding, her horse bolted, threw her out of the wagon (or off its back) and she fell to her death on the rocks below the bridge

(4.) Emily was fat, unattractive, middle aged and pregnant. Her boyfriend jumped off the bridge and died. Later Emily had twins who soon died. Brokenhearted Emily threw herself off the bridge and died.

(5.) Her boyfriend fell in love with another girl, and never showed up at the bridge, humiliating her.

(6.) After Emily began dating her lover, she became pregnant. Excited to break the news, she told him to meet her at the bridge. But he didn’t take it the way she expected, and was furious. Emily was humiliated and broken hearted, and venomously told him that if he left her, than she would tell everyone in town. At her threat, he acted hastily, and murdered her on the bridge to silence her forever. Some stories say he left town, and other stories say his guilty conscience got the better of him and he committed suicide.

But if this is the case, there would have had to be an eye witness who saw these events unfold on the bridge, or how would these details be known? As far as I know, there were no witnesses and no reports were ever made of a murder on the bridge.

And perhaps there are even more stories then that. I’m sure there are, but no one can find any real history to back any of this up, so the tales will continue to morph.

And if this wasn’t enough to ponder, I also want to bring another question into the light. If Emily did in fact commit suicide on the bridge, how would she have done so? The rafters of the bridge are a good height from the wooden planked floor. She would have had to make somewhat of an effort to climb onto one. And if she did, wouldn’t that have meant that she brought rope with her to do the job? To my knowledge, there aren’t all that many discarded coils of rope found near the covered bridge…

So, with all of this new information, how can all of the claims of paranormal activity that supposedly happen on the bridge be justified? Remember, the legend of Emily was proven to be nothing more than a hoax.

Knowing that information really makes me curious however. What could possibly account for all of people who have all claimed to have run-ins with Emily on the bridge? All of these encounters that have been reported are various, and range from benign to terrifying.

The most common occurrence are photos taken by tourists that fail to come out, or perhaps the photographer will notice that the pictures include puzzling, blurry blemishes that weren’t present when the photo was taken. Some even have photos that are said to include the ghostly image of a girl standing in front of the bridge who was not there at the time of the photo. Others have seen inexplicable things like flashing white lights with no traceable source. Others hear a disembodied voice coming from nowhere, uttering words that can’t be understood. But in the rare occasion the voice can be understood, it has been said it sounds like a woman crying for help.

Some occurrences are more aggressive, perhaps even malevolent. Hats are whisked away on windless days. Temperatures in the bridge are known to be inexplicably warmer or colder then the temperature outside. One famous tale includes one man witnessing his windshield fog up on its own, and hand prints appearing on the windshield, but no one was around to make the prints. Encounters get far more violent. In the old days, horses crossing the bridge would unaccountably bolt in fear as phantom bloody gashes would appear on their bodies that were possibly left by ghostly nails. When horse traffic was replaced with the automobile, their paint jobs would be ruined by the same invisible claws. Even people have reported being scratched!

One group of teenagers even go as far as claiming they saw Emily. As they parked their car in the bridge, they said the form of a woman appeared in front of their car and began to approach them. Terrified, they scrambled to lock their doors. She stood outside jiggling the door handles for a few minutes, trying to get in. With no luck, her form eventually dissipated into the night air.

Other weird things have said to happen in and around the bridge. Gold Brook, a beautiful rocky brook that runs underneath the bridge may have some sort of bizarre property attatched to it as well. Some claim that on certain days, phantom music, which is said to resemble windchims or the soft strumming of a harp is said to come from underneath the bridge, but when curious listeners go to investigate, they can’t find the source of the music.

What’s going on here, and what can we make of all this? Could it really be Emily? Or perhaps another ghost who died on the bridge along time ago? Perhaps author Joseph Citro guessed best, when he lumped Emily’s Bridge into one of Vermont’s few “window areas”, or, geographical areas with strange supernatural properties, where unexplainable occurrences are said to manifest, and maybe even portals to other worlds are said to reside. Or maybe it’s just the product of over active imaginations inspired by curiosity and an infamous urban legend?

There is no concrete answer, and no way to know just for sure. The story of Emily’s Bridge and the countless other historical facts, variations and paranormal claims from many people are so large in numbers and so conflicting, that it is almost impossible to pick at the pieces. So in the end, it’s up for you to decide.

One thing is for certain, however; Emily has become immortal, whether she actually existed or not.

Gold Brook, which runs below Emily’s Bridge. Gold Brook got its name after Abial Slayton found gold here after he got back from prospecting in California in 1849. He only got around $200 in gold, though, and gave up shortly after, but that didn’t stop people then, and even today, from still trying their luck at panning for gold in the brook.

** I’d like to sincerely thank Barbara Barawand from the Stowe Historical Society and Joeseph Citro for inspiring me to write this entry, and for providing me with this fascinating information.

Links:

If you’re curious, Emily’s Bridge actually has an official website. Or, as official as it gets anyways.

The official website of Emily’s Bridge

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

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

October 16, 2012March 31, 2020

Picking At The Bones

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of Mountains and Mines

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to my story.

Fading Light

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Close Encounters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

September 26, 2012March 31, 2020

The Elgin Springs Remedy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

September 19, 2012March 31, 2020

Yankee Shangri-La

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

September 15, 2012March 31, 2020

Roads Less Traveled

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

The Southern Connector

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Milton Speedway

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Links

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

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

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