weird – Page 7 – Obscure Vermont

September 14, 2012March 31, 2020

Grave Concerns

Every once and a while, I’ll have someone tell me a bizarre or strange tale that they swear has supposedly happened to them. Some of them are entertaining at best, but others surpass that, and create long lasting impressions. I don’t know, maybe I love these tales because they make me think that perhaps we’re something else than meat and bones, or perhaps it’s the allure of the ability for things to still exist that can defy any explanation that can be backed by science. Simply put; they challenge my very logical way of thinking and make me look at the familiar in an unfamiliar way. These are the stories that I would like to feature on this blog, and I think I found a good one to start with.

A Lost Town

Little River State Park in the town of Waterbury has shoreline on the beautiful Waterbury Reservoir, and extends into a grand patch of bumpy land that climbs up the mountains that form the back spine of lofty Mount Mansfield. Driving up Little River Road as it follows the sand banked river of the same name, it immediately becomes apparent that the area is wildly beautiful. But it’s tumbling topography yields another truth; the land up this way is rugged and rough. While outdoor enthusiasts really dig the state park, a century ago, the people who settled here weren’t as fond of the place – but their desperation for independence and land to build that on outweighed the many pitfalls.

The sinuous reservoir that snakes around green mountains was built for more practical purposes; to attempt to prevent ruinous floods that wiped out the town that once used to be here.

A century ago, real estate worked a bit differently than today’s trends. Prospectors pretty much settled anywhere where there was available land, including topography of the rough and rocky variety. Higher elevations were also less prone to flooding than down in the valleys, which is why many old stage roads or settlements can be found in higher elevations or places we may consider strange.

The slopes of Western Waterbury were cleared in the 1800s, and a small community of about 50 people formed, unofficially called “Ricker Mills”, “Ricker Basin” or sometimes, “The Ricker Mountain District”, all monikered after the large cluster of people who settled there with the same last name.

The settlement would eventually grow to encompass about 4,000 acres on the southeastern slopes of Ricker Mountain, which also took on the prevalent surname. But their choice of location made life up in the hills pretty rotten.

Most settling families were impoverished but they got by alright, their farms -which were hard to support on land that was mostly rocks – never prospered. The only other industries to really take off here were sawmills, taking advantage of mountains of timber and the many streams that picked up speed as they tumbled down to the valleys below.

Even today, some elderly residents who live in neighboring towns can still recall Ricker Mills as an existing place, and tell nostalgic stories of hardships. Families all had to pitch together to work on the farms in order to run a successful operation, and if one member wasn’t doing their job, the farm would limp or come to a stand still.

Eventually, younger generations began to slowly move away, looking for better opportunities. But the town’s death was sped up by the infamous flood of 1927 on November 3rd and 4th, when torrential rainfalls and frozen ground created a disastrous flood that paralyzed Vermont. The little river’s rising waters drove the valley residents to their roofs and isolated the settlement from the rest of Waterbury when the roads were washed out. In 1934, a second flood put an end to the already crippled community. Those who already hadn’t moved away were forced out when the state decided to close the roads into town for good, then began buying up all the land. The flooding inspired the creation of the aforementioned Waterbury reservoir and dam, a toilsome task built by five thousand men of the U.S. Army Corps Of Engineers and the Civilian Conservation Corps, who finally finished the massive retention project in 1938.

I attempted to go back roading back in March with a buddy, which was really just us sliding around wash boarded, muddy dirt roads a lot and wondering if it was a good idea.
We found ourselves at the foot of the Waterbury Dam. I was really digging the Art Deco detailing I was seeing.

Today, old cemeteries, sawmill remains, old town roads, bridges, and many cellar holes can still be seen as evidence of a past community. Surprisingly, a lone farmhouse from the settlement’s existence also survives off one of the trails; the ramshackle and haunted looking Almeran Goodell farmhouse, which was at one point a hunting camp before the park took possession of it. Little River State Park owns the land know, and a walk on one of its many hiking trails make these ruins easily accessible for anyone who wants to see them. Local lore maintains that when the water levels are low enough in the reservoir, which is now a popular place for outdoor recreation lovers, you can see the soaked and rusted remnants of the old iron bridge that once bridged Little River and was the main entrance into town.

Though the ghost town is an almost unsatisfyingly easy place to get too via Little River Road that parallels its river namesake, once you’re on one of the well-trodden hiking trails, it’s a surprisingly vast and desolate place, almost otherworldly. Tromping around the scattered ruins through bushy foliage that is brilliant in the fall, you can actually get a good sense of vanishing history.

DSC_0022_pe — Stone foundations and a variety of constructions can be found throughout the woods on the trails.

dsc_0029_pe — If you wanted to travel anywhere in the mountains, you had to cross plenty of streams, so local communities built “high bridges”, or, bridges built atop stone culverts to better withstand flood waters. But they often didn’t.

dsc_0032_pe — The old road has long faded into obscurity.

Last remaining house at Little River — The Goodell House is the last remaining house on Ricker Mountain, partially thanks to help from local Boy Scouts who fought to restore it, at over 140 years old.

DSC_0115_pe — Foundation at Little River

But does something else remain here other than stone foundations and weathered gravestones? Does something unknown skulk among the trees and silent swampland? I’ve heard more rumors than I thought I would that Little River State Park was haunted, but never have actually heard any specific accounts to back them up. Most details fall flat and don’t offer anything credible. A ghost town in the middle of a pretty remote stretch of woods is certain to conjure up some sort of folklore, though. Vermont is a state of extremes where either a topic has been written about to monotony, or it hasn’t been covered at all. I was hoping to break some ground here, and I knew I was onto something good when I heard this story.

A Night In The Woods

I’m proud to have been entrusted with this story, and to write about it in my blog. This is the first time this has ever been written down or told beyond a quite campfire in my backyard.

A few years ago, John, an experienced hunter took a hike into the wilds of Ricker Mountain. His plans were to spend a few days in the woods hunting and camping under the stars – a little much-needed rest and relaxation. Being an experienced woodsman, he planned carefully. He found a suitable spot for his campsite, and began to clear it of brush and tree branches. He even found some nice flat stones nearby to construct a fire pit from.

People generally are in two different camps when it comes to spending the night in the woods. John loved it. The first night, he was almost asleep inside his tent when he heard a strange noise. In the darkness, he listened carefully. It sounded like fingertips that were scratching the outside of his tent. He knew he had cleared the area of any tree branches, and it was a windless night, so he thought it had to be an animal. But he noticed that the woods had descended into an eerie silence, a silence he has never heard before. After a while, the tapping stopped. He waited for it to start up again, but it didn’t. He soon shrugged it off and fell asleep.

The next night, he awoke to the sound of someone or something, tugging at his tent straps. Again the woods fell into that eerie silence. He sat up in his sleeping bag and tried to assess the bizarre situation, but couldn’t really think about what to do other than wait for something to happen. The tugging soon stopped, and nothing ever happened. But he didn’t go back to sleep – and spent the rest of the night in anticipation, waiting until the sun rose. The next morning he noticed that the tent strap hadn’t just been pulled, it had been cut! It was a clean-cut, as done with a knife, yet he hadn’t heard the sound of tearing fabric, or the noises of any other human around.

Weighing his options, he decided to stay another night, trying to jump to a logical conclusion that could explain the previous night’s events while also falling into the gravity of his stubborn nature. He nonchalantly assumed that whatever it was, it didn’t really pose a real threat to him, and it didn’t know how long he was camping here because even John didn’t know! Surely it was gone by now. He wanted to leave when he’s good and ready, because it was hard enough to get time off from work and he wanted to enjoy the little time he had. So he decided to stay.

But on the third night, John got the surprise of his life. He woke up suddenly when the bottom of his sleeping bag, which had moved in his slumber and was touching the tent wall, was grabbed violently “as with human hands” and forcefully yanked towards the tent door. He instinctively grabbed his shotgun next to him and yelled “try that again and you’ll be sorry!” and waited with bated breath and adrenaline for something to happen. But nothing did. Again he noticed the eerie, almost unnatural silence of the woods. Nothing was making a sound, and this time, he recalled being incredibly uncomfortable by it. Surely he would have heard whatever the intruder was, retreating across all the brittle fallen leaves near the campsite, but he didn’t.

He knew it would be foolish to leave in the middle of the night, especially because he didn’t know exactly what was out there waiting for him. He knew it would be a foolish attempt to get back down towards the road. So he spent the rest of the night awake, shotgun at the ready, and as soon as dawn cracked the dark, he began to frantically pack his things.

As he took down his tent, he noticed something peculiar. As he was ensuring that the embers in the firepit were extinguished, he noticed something about one of the stones he had used to form the circular wall that he hadn’t noticed before. Somehow, unknowingly, he had used a fallen headstone from a forgotten and neglected cemetery nearby, now almost indistinguishable from years of dead leaves and fallen branches.

John doesn’t believe in ghosts, and doesn’t subscribe to any of the mythology of the paranormal and the tales that other people chase, but he managed to choke out an out of character diagnosis. “Well, man I don’t know. Maybe it was one of the ghosts of Ricker Mountain, angry that I used their headstone as part of my firepit.”

I asked John if he would ever go back to Ricker Mountain. He just shook his head and said “nope”. I guess I can’t blame him.

Digging into Trouble

Upon hearing that strange tale, my own father came forward with a story of his own, one that was as unusual, if not frightening to me. Whether it actually happened or not…well, I’ll let you decide for yourself.

When he was in his early 20s, he and his cousin were fly fishing along The Housatonic River in the small Connecticut town of Kent, in the rural Litchfield Hills. It was a perfect spring afternoon, and they were having good luck on the river.

As they fished down the riverbanks, they came to a spot where a large row of power lines crossed over the river and up a nearby mountain. Mounted above a rather steep ledge above them was a large copper plaque. Being curious, they both got closer to read it. The plaque was commemorating a tragic death that took place on that very spot 100 years ago, when a copper mine collapsed killing an unknown amount of miners. They were standing on a mass grave. What happened next has no explanation. One of them suggested digging up the grave – or what appeared to be the grave site. The earth was soft and seemed easy to dig through. My father agreed. Being young and immortal, they began to pick away at the hillside. And within minutes, the pleasant spring weather turned ugly. The skies turned a dark black and before they knew it, a freak bolt of lightning struck the power lines directly above their heads.

Terrified, the two of them stopped their digging and hastily retreated back to the safety of their car. And that was when they realized that this wasn’t just an ordinary storm.

“I looked back, and noticed that the lightning was striking and hitting every tree or pole that we were running by! It was – it was like it was following us!” my dad said animatedly, getting caught up in his memory. They scrambled back onto Route 7, both breathing heavily and scared out of their minds. And just as soon as the storm started, it stopped. The skies were clear again. It was like nothing had ever happened.

They scrambled back onto Route 7, both breathing heavily and scared out of their minds. I guess anyone would be in that situation. And just as soon as the storm started, it stopped. The skies were clear again. It was like nothing had ever happened.

So is there an explanation here, supernatural or other? Was this just a bad freak storm that passed right over their heads? After all, New England is known for it’s weird weather. Or was it something more, perhaps it really was an act of vengeance from the angered ghosts of the dead minors who lost their lives under that very spot. Neither of them have an explanation, and the only conclusion I have is that they did experience something. One thing is for certain, they have never done anything that stupid ever again.

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

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

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

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September 12, 2012March 31, 2020

The License Plate House

One of my favorite oddities in Vermont to photograph is on the back roads of rural Fletcher. Instead of using traditional vinyl or wooden siding, the owner of this ramshackle structure had a much more original idea – he covered it wall to wall with what might be the largest collection of license plates in the state of Vermont. The plates range in age, dating as far back as the 1920s and going as late as the 1990s. Most were Vermont plates, but there were a few outliers. Connecticut, Massachusetts, Kentucky and Wisconsin were included. Knowing a good photo opportunity when I see one, I had to stop. Thankfully, the town of Fletcher seemed to be free of traffic that day, so I had the whole road and a good chunk of time to get a decent picture of the structure without worrying about my safety.

It was a beautiful spring evening, the sky was stained with a mixture of brilliant blues and pinks, which was a vibrant contrast to the green fields blooming with dandelions and the perfume of wet earth. As I was adjusting my camera settings, I noticed that I was no longer alone. An elderly gentleman had walked up behind me. I assumed he was most likely the owner of the building. Just as I thought I was going to get a stern talking too for being too close and standing there for too long, he asked me how I was doing. He had a puzzled look on his face, but his question was sincere. I smiled and told him I liked his building. He looked over at it, then back at me, an amused grin on his face. I could tell he never thought of his own property as much of an attraction before. “You from the Burlington area, or are you a flatlander?” he said with a grin. I chuckled a little at this, suddenly a bit self-conscious of my appearance. I’ve always been proud of my Vermont roots, and have never had to question my appearance before.

Then unexpectedly, he motioned for me to follow him with his hand, and before I knew it, he was digging in his pocket. Out came a key, and he began to fiddle with a padlock. There was an awkward moment where he and the garage door seemed to be fighting with one another. The building’s structure was so lopsided that it seemed either the door was going to fall out of it’s frame, or the building was going to collapse. But it finally gave way, and slid open on its rusty wheels. “Well, are you coming?” he questioned. I asked myself the same thing, and stepped inside. He fumbled for the light switch and I heard the buzzing noise of a Mercury Vapor light come on.

Generations of artifacts and various knick knacks lay piled inside. So many in fact that the building was filled to it’s rafters, there was barely any room to move, yet alone get a good idea of where to begin processing what I was seeing. It was incredible.

There was a moment of awkward silence, I didn’t quite know what to say. I looked over and noticed he was now holding a wooden pipe in one hand, and packing it with tobacco with the other. As he lit up, it seemed at this point that he felt comfortable enough to start really engaging in conversation, and before I knew it, my questions were soon answered. As it turns out, this used to be a gas station, and has been in his family since the 1920s. His great grandfather started the business, and was a self taught and skilled auto mechanic, as well as a dedicated farmer. The gas station served as both his mechanic shop and his farm workshop. A perfect example of Yankee Ingenuity, he used the brook behind the building for power, by means of a homemade generator complete with a hand-carved wooden wheel that rotated with a belt attached to it. I was at a loss for words.

The gas station changed hands from his grandfather to his father and later, him. Locals from Fletcher who recall the place in operation said it was cool. One person told me that he used to drop by to gas up his call, and inside the office near the door, there was a tin can where you could leave your money. Everyone was on the honor system.

Its doors closed during the 80s when pressure from the gas industry forced people into modernizing the gas pumps, which was something the family couldn’t afford to do. The original gas pumps still sit out front – sort of. Last winter, a plow truck came through the area a little too fast and took them out completely. The town wouldn’t reimburse the family for the damages, so they did the only thing they could do – move the remains out of the road. He lifted up a weathered tarp and revealed the busted remains. Though damaged, the antique pumps were still a cool site to see.

I asked about the license plates, and his answer was simple. “We’ve owned a lot of cars”. Whether this was a true answer or just sarcasm, I was satisfied with his right to the point reply.

I can’t describe in writing the genuine old time feeling this place had to it, with it’s distinct barn smell and eclectic array of aging antiques and artifacts, sitting in cluttered piles collecting dust. But he assured me everything had its place here. “My dad had a system. He always knew where everything was” he told me. I asked about some of the vintage posters on the wall, hoping maybe he would sell one for the right price, but my request was instantly meant with a stern no. “Nope. They’ve always been here on the wall and that’s right where they are going to stay”

What I didn’t realize, was that a lot of the antiques I saw actually didn’t belong to him. A lot of stuff came from family and friends from the Waitsfield-Warren area, being stored here after a lot of the farms down that way were damaged from tropical storm Irene. He also explained why the building was in such bad shape, another result of tropical storm Irene. The quiet stream that runs behind the building overflowed its banks and swelled through the cracks of the building and into the foundation. The damage is “too expensive to fix” and the state has deemed the place uninhabitable. “I can’t really do much but wait for it to fall down” he said, a sense of loss in his voice.

He gave the garage door another good wedge and pulled it shut. I thanked him for the tour and shook his hand. I could tell as he walked away that he was amused by my curiosity by his property, and as for me, I was just thankful he took the time out of that spring night to share it with me.

DSC_0897_pe — Taken early spring of 2014, when I drove by again. Sadly, my original photos of the spring 2012 shoot were lost when my hard drive crashed. A poignant reminder to back up your work…

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

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

September 10, 2012March 31, 2020

Silent Stations

There was a time in Vermont where even the smallest village had it’s own railroad depot, making a once removed community now accessible to anywhere within the nation’s rail system. It established a sense of identity and pride for local residents, provided the great convenience of transportation, and in many cases helped lure growth to the regions. Even the smallest ones were done with thoughtful craftsmanship. Many in Vermont featured beautiful wooden interiors made from local wood – a thematic reflection of their country location.

But today’s Vermont is a different place, one where transportation is mostly divvied up among the asphalt. Vermonters have Interstates 89 and 91 to take them places at high speeds now, and all our small towns and cities are connected by a road of some form. With the new luxury and independence of owning a vehicle, rail travel suffered a slow decline in the 20th century, and as a result, many train stations closed and became abandoned and neglected. In recent years, old train stations have been refurbished as private homes, others have been turned into restaurants. And in the case of this one, it sits idle and abandoned, conspicuously forsaken by the very town that once urged for it’s construction.

A somber visit

I happened on this small train station completely by accident as I drove by it. It was in one of those small Vermont towns with only a general store and a single stop sign. Just beyond the train station, the speed limit was raised from 25 to 50 mph and traffic wasted no time in speeding up out of the village limits. I decided to have a look around. The building looked like it was in good condition still, but nothing was being done with it. A peek through a dirt streaked window pane revealed the inside had been gutted, and was sort of being used for storage – the rooms housing stacks of cut lumber. I looked to my left and noticed a lumber yard right next door, who was most likely using the station as a shed. I walked around to the former train platform in back and found an open window. That was my chance. I wasted no time, and slipped in quietly and quickly, my feet landing on the dusty wooden floors.

Though there wasn’t much left to the inside, it was still fascinating. The walls were done completely in old wainscoting that was stained with kerosene oil, giving the walls a distinct color that only looked better as they cracked and aged. The station was small, with the ticket vendors office, central waiting room and a few side rooms making up the one floor structure. Inside, it was silent, my footsteps across creaking floorboards making the only sound. Remnants of old signs still stained the old walls. Former built in wall cabinets were now just holes in the wall – their records and artifacts long removed. The sky outside was over cast and a little dismal – grey light was seeping through the stained windows, creating a solemn ambiance. I stopped and savored the moment, knowing that back outside, I would soon be greeting by roaring impatient traffic and the real world. It’s this rare time of reflection that makes these locations so special.

Inside Out

A chance find lead my tired self to another abandoned train depot, on my way home from another explore. It was in a quiet neighborhood, the type of place where we were probably suspicious just because we happened to be the only car slowly prowling the potholed gravel roads.

Still retaining much of its original character and woodwork, it had been abandoned and then converted into a garage, and then seemingly, abandoned again. The building was pretty much only a shell of what it once was, and it’s dusty old walls had the archetypal small town graffiti affixed to it by local kids most likely. But the antiquity still echoed here under the harsh late Autumn sunset.

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

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

September 4, 2012March 31, 2020

The Hoarder’s Fortress

Hidden in plain sight in the center of town, this sad looking house has a story to be told that would make misery proud.

This once attractive house is steeped in hard luck and roams in the ether. Though it was once a symbol of grandeur, it now stays down with its demons, lost to the vines that ensnare it – trying to keep its skeletons in.

As the story goes, the house was the home of an elderly woman, who over the years she lived there, became an extravagant hoarder. Eventually, the garbage inside reached ceiling level, and the house was in absolute squalor. A once proud and independent person, she now sealed her house like a fort, fighting her secret wars.

She was eventually evicted, and the house became condemned, and left to sit there. Gazing upon it from the sun bleached sidewalk out front, it’s amazing how overwhelming nature can be when melding with something artificial; something man made. These countless plants have securely attached and actually have became part the exterior walls. Who knows how long it would be before the force is too much, and the first pane of window glass breaks, allowing entry for the outside.

Summer Humidity

I had picked the worst day to investigate this house. It was an incredibly hot August afternoon, and the humidity was sliding off the streets. As me and a friend parked the car out front, I was beginning to rethink my decision, but decided to push forward. Making our way through the urban jungle to the back of the house, we needed a way inside that was unobstructed by garbage. Walking through long grass that were needles that drew blood, the sweat that was forming on my body began to sting the fresh wounds as it entered. I finally found our entrance, the only door that had been spared by a barricade of garbage. The door swung open effortlessly, and we stepped into the dark interior, our eyes painfully straining to adjust.

Upon stepping into the kitchen, I soon realized I had my work cut out for me. The garbage was so high that the floors were not visible. In order to walk around, we had to awkwardly stumble across the top of the garbage mounds, which were well over knee deep in height. I now had to hunch over to prevent my head from hitting the ceiling, as I attempted to walk from room to room as I fumbled and fell in the unknown below my feet. Ironically, there were “paths” leading from room to room – obviously someone had went through the trouble of getting around in here before.

And then, something strange happened. Subconsciously, both me and my friend found ourselves being intently silent, daring not to speak in anything more than a whisper. Even stranger, we both seemed to recall our actions at the same time.

Another thing I didn’t anticipate was the humidity inside the house. It was stifling. I had only been inside 5 minutes, and between attempting to successfully move from one place to another while seeing where I was going in the smoldering shadows, I was already drenched in sweat. The summer heat baked the house, and the smell of plaster rot, mold, water damage and the cooking garbage was pungent. I had made my way through the kitchen and the parlor, and found a staircase on my right. The door had so much garbage on both sides that I had to spend several minutes attempting to open it just wide enough for me to squeeze through. Not surprisingly, there was more garbage on the stairs, making it a dangerous trip up. I looked at my friend, and she looked at me as if to say “your call”. At this point, I was wondering what I had gotten myself into. Through the maze of littered hallways and staining shadows, it was almost like a silent challenge to the house, as if to say “come and find me”, as I felt smaller and smaller.

There were some other unusual things inside that I noted. The doors and windows were covered in strips of fly paper that had been there for years, hundreds of dead flies clinging to the stained yellow paper. Also, each door upstairs had a “No Trespassing” sign and a “No Smoking” sign nailed to both sides.

Old photographs, furniture, handwritten letters, priceless China and clothes lay scattered in heaps within each room. All that captured her heart was on the table, lost to the ether. Part of me wished the ghosts in the room would let me hear their voices when they ask what I see.

In terms of a psychological experience of discovery, this was quite powerful, allowing you to pick at the pieces of someone else’s puzzle, while allowing your wondering mind to read between the lines, telling yourself to come down, it’s alright. Underneath waning silhouettes, I felt strangely connected to this person I’ve never met before.

Today, the house has long been gutted, and is in the process of being renovated. It’s like this mysterious woman and her alien, lonesome world never existed. If there is one thing I’ve learned about life, inhabited throughout my urban explorations, is that no matter how grand something might seem, nothing is ever more than temporary.

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

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

September 2, 2012March 31, 2020

Georgia’s Giant Puzzle Pieces

There is a rather unusual landmark in Georgia that may have some people scratching their heads. That is – if you can find it. If you trudge up a gentle hill through knee deep weeds, behind the Georgia Interstate Rest Area, you come face to face with these life-sized jigsaw puzzle pieces, sitting neglected in the Vermont woods. The irony isn’t lost on me here, as these weathered puzzle pieces are, well, a puzzle. What the hell are they? Why are they here? Who sculpted them? And why have they been forgotten?

As it turns out, these are a set out of of 18 sculptures designed and fabricated during the International Sculpture Symposium held in Vermont in 1968 and 1971, with the intent on decorating the freshly constructed interstate system and it’s rest stops. Matching grant funding was provided by the National Endowment for the Arts.

The event was organized by Paul Aschenbach, a well respected and now deceased UVM professor. The sculptors came from all over the world, and the output was meant to beautify and bring some life into the newly built rest stops along interstates 89 and 91, but instead, many of them have been forsaken and serves as monuments to enigmatic decrepitude.

The interstate coming through Vermont is fascinatingly turbulent. I didn’t cover much of that here, maybe I will in a future blog post. But – UVM has a pretty cool blog about it, with old photos.

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

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

August 24, 2012March 31, 2020

Island of Shrieking Birds

Young Island has very little in common with the atmosphere of a faraway planet, and yet, its alien design is completely foreign amongst the rest of the Lake Champlain Valley. A barren wasteland, all the trees and plant life are dead- their leaves and twigs long plucked off. Weeds most commonly found in wastelands are the only living things that can grow and survive in this inhospitable place. In the center of this eerie landscape is the rotting shell of an old cabin- evidence that there once was human habitation here. And everything that is something is covered in toxic bird guano and molted rotting feathers, left to bake under the sultry summers. This intimidating and miserable island enjoys a unique reputation, and perhaps is one of the most mysterious places on Lake Champlain.

Though the island’s official name is Young Island, residents of neighboring communities have another moniker for this foul place; bird island. This blunt nickname also tells us the story of this small island’s mutilation.

At certain times, the rocky slab of land off the coast of Grand Isle seems to actually be quivering, but it’s not the heat of the day or some sinister preternatural force at work. Instead, the culprits are thousands of birds flying around the island. More specifically, Double Crested Cormorants.

Immigrants to Vermont, they were first spotted in the area around the 1970s near Young Island. In 1981, that number grew to 35. Recently, the population exceeded 15,000, (some say over 20,000) with 98% living on Young Island, and more recently, are beginning to become discovered on other islands around the lake.

Cormorants like to nest on remote islands, safe from predators and human habitation, making Young Island an ideal choice. But sadly, they are not welcomed neighbors to our region because their nesting habits are destructive, which are endangering the ecosystem of the lake. Cormorants settle into their new found homes by plucking away at the vegetation and tree branches, using the material for their big messy nests, leaving dead skeletons in their place. Their nests can reach as high as 2 feet tall and are built strong because adult Cormorants can weight up to as much as 12 pounds. The bird guano that now covers the island is acidic, and also helps kill the trees and the shrubbery and its foul smell can radiate for miles when there is a strong wind. As their numbers grow, they become a dominant and intimidating presence and prevent other species from nesting in the area – and Young Island is small, and space is at a premium. So much so, boaters, fisherman and a few residents from as far away as Grand Isle have reported hearing the loud and belligerent sound of countless bird shrieks, as they fight for space to nest. The island has been turned into a war zone.

So, what is being done about this problem? Or perhaps, why has it been allowed to happen? The answer is a simple one; Cormorants are a protected species, with the state arguing that they have as much right to nest and live near the lake as any other species. But recently, The Vermont Fish and Wildlife Department has made exceptions because of an increasing worry that Cormorants will soon migrate and destroy other islands. And this fear has became a reality as neighboring Bixby Island, as well as The Four Brothers Islands in New York have already began to see Cormorants nesting on their shores. The Fish and Wildlife Department is trying to keep the population from exploding, by oiling their eggs so they won’t hatch, and blasting nests from other islands with high powered water hoses. Taking advantage of a unique situation, UVM uses Young Island as a research environment, to study the Cormorants and their nesting habits.

Thanks to egg oiling, some have told me that the population has actually dwindled to “the hundreds” as less and less are returning to Young Island, or migrating to other islands across the lake – but so far, the damage to their other new found homes hasn’t been as destructive. Yet.

Regardless of the accuracy of numbers, spending time on Young Island isn’t for the squeamish. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t think of many other places that you could feel more isolated on. When brave visitors make their way onto the disturbingly intriguing island and through layers of bird guano, the baby Cormorants defend themselves with the only ammunition they have, they throw up whatever they’ve eaten for the day.

And if that isn’t strange enough, Young Island is one of the few places on the lake where Yellow Perch literally fall out of the sky. But these aren’t Perch you want to eat, these have already been eaten, twice – coughed up by a soaring Cormorant. And of course, Cormorants are also considered a threat to the local fish population, with the alarmingly high numbers they consume.

If you wish to see this unusual area for yourself, take a drive to Grand Isle’s West Shore Road, near the Vantines fishing access area, and Young Island will be to the north west. You can’t miss it.

DSC_0680_pe — Young Island from Adams Landing Road

DSC_0695_pe — Best picture I could take with my zoom lens. Here, you can get more detail of the house and the scrubby island floor. Any closer and I’d have to be in a boat. Since this picture was taken, the cabin’s roof has caved in.

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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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August 14, 2012March 31, 2020

The Walloomsac Inn

It’s a point of pride for a community to be able to call themselves the home of something, or boast themselves as a standout locality. Bennington’s tourism slogan bills itself as “Where Vermont begins”, and that’s pretty accurate. The sizable town is located on the right angle that creates Vermont’s southwest corner, 6 miles from both the Massachusetts and New York state borders on U.S. Route 7, the most traveled road in the state.

Bennington is the type of town that probably prefers to be known for its verdant scenery, state-mandated lack of billboards and quaintness with a pricey college and liberal vibe. But more cryptically, it’s also another gateway – to the state’s fabled Bennington Triangle, a vast area of mountainous wilderness to the northeast of town where people have been known to disappear without a trace. Though the “Bennington Triangle” won’t appear on Google maps or a Rand McNally atlas, Old Bennington certainly will.

The area of town known as Old Bennington is just that – it’s the oldest settled part of town, and an official historic district located on state Route 9 west of the present day Downtown. Probably the most identifiable landmark in a neighborhood of colonial-era homes, old burial yards and white picket fences, is a brooding structure towering behind a veil of trees and creeping vines. This locale upholds as my favorite sight in town. Maybe because it looks like it doesn’t belong right in the epicenter of the tourist hub historic district that prides itself on aesthetics, or maybe it’s because it holds a great mystic to it.

It’s sagging porches and balconies and weather-beaten wood facade with crooked shutters conjuring a wistful image that carries the weight of its ghosts. The building successfully drew my attention, and apparently every other passing car, as many slowed down in front of me to take a better look at the place before speeding up back to the legal limit and heading down the hill towards downtown. So, what is this place? Its appearance is so galvanizing that it’s impossible not to go woolgathering when you gaze at its gray entropy and wild vines against the idyllic clean whiteness of the clapboard church that sits just at the other end of the corner.

You’re staring at the ruins of The Walloomsac Inn, once a venerable hotel with a storied legacy, now an intriguing eye magnetic corpse that mystifies and takes your attention successfully.

However, despite appearances, it’s not abandoned. The family who owned the hotel in the last years of its life, still live there. I recall hearing a story where, years ago, a writer for the Bennington Banner ventured to the front door to check the place out, and was not so pleasantly surprised when the owner greeted them.

So, what’s the story here? The Bennington Museum website turned out to be a great source of information. The hotel has the distinction of being the oldest in Vermont, something most people would probably never guess. Dated back to 1771, the mystery immediately begins with its construction. Popular wisdom states that it was built by Elijah Dewey, son of Bennington’s first minister, but others have said that claim is false, leaving it up for speculation, but from my research, the inn was first run by the Dewey family. The original structure still stands today, the part directly facing the cemetery, which also happens to be the part of the hotel that is still currently inhabited.

In 1818, the inn was purchased by James Hicks and his family and became known as Hicks Tavern. The tavern doubled as a stagecoach stop, and because the journey to and from New York was a long one, taking around four days to complete, its location proved to be good for business. Hicks eventually enlarged the building in 1823, adding the third floor and installing a ballroom on the second floor.

The Inn grew in popularity until 1848 when the railroad came to the region, ending stagecoach travel. While many herald the railroad as a cause for celebration, Bennington was served by something called a “corkscrew line”, operated by the Rutland Railroad, which is as terrifying as it sounds. The stretch of tracks were known for their “spectacular derailments“, which probably weren’t as celebrated. The inn was purchased by George Wadsworth Robinson, who changed its name to Walloomsac House, after the river of the same name which runs nearby. But business was never quite as successful as it was during the stagecoach era, when travelers would arrive at its doorstep, so in a vain effort to attract summer visitors, Robinson constructed observatory towers on nearby Mt. Anthony, which would have offered impressive views of 3 mountain ranges; The Greens, Berkshires and Taconics. Unfortunately, the mountain’s high winds often blew them over and because putting people’s lives at risk is bad for business, the idea was abandoned. Eventually, the hotel changed hands again, this time it was bought by Mrs. Mary Sanford Robinson and her brother, Samuel Sanford.

In 1891 Sanford hired a proprietor named Walter Berry, who after five years was able to purchase the inn and it has been owned by the Berry family ever since. Walter Berry decided to expand the hotel, and added the large three-and-a-half-story addition on the rear of the original building, which is probably the most photographed part of the hotel.

The hotel operated sluggishly until around 1996, the property closed for good, and time has sadly not been kind to it. I spoke to a few people who recall staying there during the 80s, and gave me descriptions of the place being dusty, run down and musty, with sort of an uncomfortable feeling attached to it.

If this blog has been able to prove anything, it’s that things fade with time and neglect – the Walloomsac wasn’t immune to that rule, and continues to deteriorate for all to see. The current owners most likely can’t afford the massive bill to fix it up, and state historic preservation regulations no doubt have provided a massive obstacle to deal with, but its state of limbo is a rather curious one. The information on the internet is surprisingly sparse.

I can only imagine what the inside must look like. Are there dark and musty hallways and ancient guest rooms covered in dust and disarray? Does sunlight swirl through the gaps in the broken shutters, making linear patterns on the dirty walls? Or perhaps it has been renovated and cleared over the years, leaving only the shell? Or maybe, the grungy outsides are hiding a lavish interior, which would be a great joke and a lesson on judgment all in one.

A friend of mine, who has an obsession with the old hotel, had stopped in Bennington in May of 2015 and wrote me an email with some further clarification about its condition.

The hotel’s current owners, descendants of the Berry family, are merely following instructions of the family will, which stated that no one is to touch the building, and to leave it as is. But, it seems they may have took it a little too seriously! While it may look like it’s going to collapse, another bit of research revealed that underneath the wry expression of its decrepit clapboard siding, the hotel is actually made of brick underneath, which is why the building is showing almost no sign of slumping or bowing into a shape that would rattle a state inspector. That was something that amazed me on my first visit.

While the old hotel, rotting in the middle of town, has a pretty storied history behind it, I sort of enjoyed the place more when it was enigmatic to me, and left my mind to its own devices.

View from Route 9. The original 1771 structure (with front porch) and the newer addition in the back left.

I stopped by again during summer’s last days of 2016 and got some more photographs. I will never object to making a jaunt here for a photo opportunity, it’s one of my favorite haunts in Vermont, and that day, a storm I was racing just happened to catch up with me outside, giving the place, and my photographs, some great atmosphere.

Years ago, I had the pleasure of befriending Stuart Clough in an urbex related Facebook group. We both had similar interests and personalities and just clicked. He is also interested in the Walloomsac, and actually got his hands on an old book that featured both its history and photographs of the inside! He graciously scanned the photos and sent them my way, which I was incredibly excited about. Thanks Stuart!

The Most Interesting Statue in Bennington

A passing thunderstorm was making its way over The Green Mountains, and the air became noticeably cooler, as a pungent earthy smell rode the winds that blew. The Walloomsac Inn underneath dark thunderheads certainly looked like the stereotypical haunted house.

Back in the car, myself and a good friend joining me for a road trip headed back towards Route 7, but stopped when we saw a startling statue in front of the Bennington Museum that looked all kinds of infelicitous. We pulled into the parking lot to get a better look, and I had no idea what I was staring at. A giant bronze statue of Abraham Lincoln with his green-ish weathered hands placed on the head of two naked companions, one of them a small child. What?

I’m sure there had to be a story here. Later on, Seven Days would come to my aid and answer the question behind this puzzling statue. As it turns out, the sculpture, designed by Clyde du Vernet Hunt, was actually intended to be more uplifting rather than suggestive.

In a nutshell, the two people kneeling in front of honest Abe were taken from two other sculptures he had commission earlier, the boy came from a piece called “Fils de France,” which depicted a naked boy gazing into the distance in his own reverie, was supposed to symbolize France’s rebirth. The girl came from his piece, “Nirvana”, which is said to represent “spiritual emancipation from passion, hatred, and delusion.” The figure of Abraham Lincoln was sculpted in 1920, and he made the unfortunate decision of combining the three pieces together, thus creating “The American Dream” – the official name of the sculpture. Maybe it’s just me, or maybe Clyde really missed the point he was going for.

The statue has become a landmark, but probably not like the artist would have wanted. Instead of a symbol for the virtuous, it acts as a novelty to teenagers who take their pictures with it. But I suppose, art is subjective.

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

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August 9, 2012March 31, 2020

No Tell Motel

When I first knew I wanted to become a local weird worker and started plotting Vermont road trips to weirdness and wonders, Flory’s was on my list. I was younger then, I recalled seeing it numerous times driving through Rutland to my deer camp in East Wallingford growing up. It was abandoned, it was creepy, and it fueled the imagination and boredom of my late teenage mind, before I grew a bit older and my paths began finding a way to the surface.

There is a set of shady and conspicuous ruins that are crumbling to pieces at a major entry point into the bustle of Rutland City, and its neighbors aren’t giving them so much love. As these buildings become disfigured by neglect, and the decay spreads from the first patches of mold to crumbling plaster and collapsing roofs, they become black eyes of the community and act as silent invitations for suspicious activity or banter that’s not praise.

In this constellation of dead places, there is a shopping plaza, a burger stand, a gas station and a motel, connected by patchworks of parking lots turning into weed pits. One commonality forever links all of these places together; they all wear the name Flory, which would account for the many locals who refer to this aging stain as “Floryville”

Perhaps the most interesting place in this collection of decrepitude is Flory’s Motel; a simple 2 story rectangular building with collapsing balconies and broken windows. Opening in 1968, it sold itself as a family destination in the heart of Vermont’s ski country. At the time, Rutland had a booming tourism industry which was fueled by the allures of the nearby ski resorts of Pico and High Pond – Killington would later follow in 1958. The commercial strips of Routes 4 and 7 became lined with motels and restaurants that would cater to the visitors.

But times changed, as new homogenized chain hotels were built along the ‘RutVegas strip’, and the glitzy hotels and mountain chalets of Killington opened their doors. That, and a new portion of U.S. Route 4 was constructed around 1986, creating an interstate type highway which bypassed south of Rutland, running from Route 7 all the way west to Whitehall, New York.

With new competition and Rutland’s declining reputation into the 21st century, Flory’s Motel eventually closed around 1989. But it wasn’t just the motel. It seems that the entire Flory empire fell into ruin at one point, leaving nothing but decaying husks along Route 4 as an unceremonious eulogy to the family name and a giving the place name Center Rutland sort of a sketchy reputation.

Admittedly, the defunct motel’s history didn’t really interest me – tons of other ruins across the country more or less had similar destructions. It’s both the urban legends that surround its corpse and the simple fact that it’s just there that made it intriguing to me, and on my ODDysey to explore as much of obscure Vermont as I can over the years, I put it on my list.

With its rampant fungus and collapsing floors, there’s no chance that the motel will ever be reopened.

Since it’s closing, most anything of value has been stolen. Copper wiring has been stripped from the building and it has become a haven for druggies and the homeless. The thought of human habitation in this foul place seems absurd. And yet, in the lonely rooms smoldering in darkness and mildew, there were piles of new Arizona jeans, cases of bottled water and bed sheets for curtains.

Seeing that gave every single awful story I’ve ever heard about this place a tendril of believability, which ranged from meth labs to cults and their arcane rituals to vagabonds that chase visitors away with blunt objects.

The floors were rotting away, some too dangerous to walk on. Most of the lobby could have disintegrated into the black cellar below at any moment. The busted jukebox in the corner never playing that song from yesteryear when everything was alright. The balconies were treacherous to walk on, and could collapse with just the right amount of weight, which thankfully I didn’t appear to amount to.

In one room upstairs, me and my exploring companion had an uncomfortable experience. While checking out the row of accommodations upstairs, I stepped into one of them, before being called over to another room for a reason that I don’t recall anymore. When I returned to photograph that room I never got to shoot, there was a butcher knife newly stabbed into the rotting plaster walls – it’s wielder unseen. At that point, we decided to make a hasty retreat and called it a day.

Flory’s Motel was a dangerous location to visit. The structural decay and the possibility of running into a suspicious (and most likely dangerous) character made this a risky location.

But there is something to be said here. Though dangerous and imposing, the motel offers a more melancholy look into Rutland’s past, a relic of yesteryear and showpiece of a community fallen on hard times.

A few years ago, someone finally got rid of the motel via a successful arson attempt. I bet the neighbors don’t miss it.

*special thanks to Carolynn Ranftle from the Rutland Historical society for providing me with the information used in this article.

Flory’s Motel in its heyday:

Flory’s Motel Today (Spring 2012):

“Floryville”

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

My exploring protocol is to see as much as I can during my visitation hours, and I noticed there seemed to be more property behind the motel. That property was a brookside area completely grown wild with nasty vines and waste weed that were writhing around a collection of junked vehicles, which only increased the creepy vibe to this place.

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

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

August 8, 2012March 31, 2020

The Ruins of Tahawus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tahawus Today

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Old McIntyre Blast Furnace site

Tahawus Town

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

Links:

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

Tahawus on Wikipedia

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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.

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!

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August 3, 2012March 31, 2020

The Fall of Hyde Manor

Maybe my love of exploration transitioned into an obsession here, at Hyde Manor. The brooding wooden dinosaur of a building holds a lot of memories for me, and planted the seeds of me starting this blog years ago. To be honest, I may never have perused photography or exploring as seriously if it weren’t for my time here.

The manor was opened in 1865 by James Hyde, and after its completion, it was considered to be one of the most esteemed getaways in New England.

And now it all lies in ruins, sitting in the Sudbury woods with the hum of the highway swallowing whatever sad songs the hotel sings. I first saw the building as a wide eyed 12 year old, passing it en route to a destination long forgotten, but Hyde Manor forever burned itself into memory. I knew that day that I wanted to come back and explore it, to discover whatever wondrous secrets lay inside. And several years later, I got my chance.

Peering up at this brooding structure behind the maples that separate sun from shadows offers no insight to what it used to be. Its windows are broken, tattered curtains hang in strips through the vacant panes. The massive front tower, a signature architectural feature of this grand structure, is dangerously lopsided and looks like it may soon tumble down onto the tall grass you stand in. The once grand New England veranda with rows of wooden rocking chairs have long wasted away into weedy piles of debris. There are no signs, no historical markers, no identity.

So, what was this place? And what happened here? Though you can’t tell by looking at it, this is all that remains of Hyde Manor, a once grand antebellum hotel in the Vermont countryside, now a collection of rotting bones that are slowly turning to dust upon the ground it sits on.

But even in decay, Hyde Manor still retains its elegance. You don’t even have to question that this place was once magnificent. But why was it left to waste away? To get a good idea of what happened, you need to know a little about its past. And through extensive research online, I was able to get a basic idea of the picture.

Hyde Manor’s origins began as something much more humble and can be traced back to around 1798, as a small stagecoach stop known as Mills Tavern, back when the busy state route out front was a muddy and arduous stage road. In 1801, Pitt Hyde bought the tavern and 47 surrounding acres.

The tavern was eventually passed down to Pitt Hyde’s son, James. Overtime, James began holding all night Yankee balls at the tavern which turned out to be a huge success and developed a loyal customer base, as well as ensuring landmark status. As time passed, James wanted to do more than run a tavern, and decided to expand. Eventually, he would open Hyde’s Hotel.

His timing was impeccable, as a train station and a new canal in nearby Whitehall, New York soon made the region more accessible to wealthy tourists. Hyde’s property also had a vogue tourism magnet; mountain springs, which at the time were thought to possess healing properties that could cure the sick and the mentally ill. If your business advertised these moot claims – you were almost guaranteed to draw crowds. Hyde took advantage of these situations and began marketing his hotel as a destination, especially for those living in the dirty urban metropolises of the northeast looking for respite and peace of mind in bucolic Vermont.

When a fire destroyed the original building in 1862, the Hyde’s decided to rebuild. But this time, James was riding on the silver tides of great expectations and envisioned something grander – a showpiece! Something to secure the Hyde family legacy. By 1865, the stately Italianate building that still stands today was erected with no expenses spared. Hyde’s bravado paid off. The resort’s popularity only continued to grow in the antebellum years.

By the turn of the century, the hotel was passed down to James’ son Arunah, or “A.W.,” Hyde, and he began to expand the property once more. Now, the name was officially changed to Hyde Manor.

I was fortunate enough to be given a scanned copy of an original 1901 promotional booklet on Hyde Manor. It’s old photos speaking through the antebellum haze, and gave me a startling impression of what it used to be like.

The capacity was advertised as 250 guests, and the buildings were state of the art in terms of luxury of the day. They were gas heated, with wide hallways containing public and private parlors. Many guest rooms were equipped with private baths, electric buzzers for communication purposes, and fire escapes and round the clock watchman, just in case. People looking for more intimate accommodations could stay in one of the cottages or farmhouses around the property, a few which are still standing today.

The property and its many buildings were connected by a series of broad piazzas, lined with the classic New England postcarded hotel image of wooden rocking chairs arranged in symmetrically neat rows, offering wide views of sloping lawns which were once shaded by Maples and Elms, looked out over the distant silhouettes of the Adirondacks. At night, the grand piazzas were the perfect place to take in the soft summer air. There was a private boathouse on nearby Lake Hortonia, with complimentary stagecoach service, as well as a private lake sitting at the top of the hill behind the manor, Lake Hinkum, which was stocked with trout for the fisherman.

The mountain springs which flowed on the property contained iron and sulfur, and were bottled for the guests’ enjoyment. There was even a spring house connected to the property by a wide plank deck, where guests could obtain it’s bottled water, free of charge.

The brochure boasted the superlative “every attraction has been given to the amusement of life of Hyde Manor”, and from what I was able to research, they weren’t overselling themselves. Other attractions include a casino, equipped with a stage for live performances. There was a billiards room where men could retire with a cigar and a drink at the end of the day. There was also a dark room for photographers, and 2 bowling alleys equipped with Narraganset Standard alleys – now completely buried underneath unused lumber and storage. A music hall could apparently seat 300 people. The hotel had mail service and a telegraph office, a 200-acre golf course across the road, a ski hill in the winter (at the golf course) tennis courts, baseball diamonds, and shuffleboard courts.

Hyde Manor became such a well-known destination that old maps began printing the name Hyde Manor on them, as if it were the town itself, and sometimes, the town of Sudbury wouldn’t even be included. Even until a few years ago, I recall atlases including Hyde Manor on the map.

A brief conversation with the owner on the front lawn uncovered the enigma of Hyde Manor’s post-mortem. When the World War 2 era rolled in, automobile and airplane travel began increasing rapidly, bringing independence and broadening traveling options. The Hyde’s assumed this would be great for business, but ironically, that turned out to be exactly what killed the hotel. Now that people could come and go more freely, it made long stays in one place unnecessary. Soon, a new icon of Americana made its début, chain hotels. Hotels like Holiday Inns and Howard Johnsons, which began appearing in the 1950s, became instantly popular, and travelers were all about modern conveniences. Hyde Manor was now seen as out of date.

The Hyde’s sold the property in 1962, and in the last years of its former life, the manor operated as a resort called “The Top of The Seasons”. Unfortunately, the hotel suffered a slow and painful death until 1970 when it closed its doors for good. According to a few who were kind enough to share their memories, around the time of its closing, they recalled the hotel being a little dingy and dirty.

The family couldn’t afford to fix it up, and can’t afford to tear it down. Over time, maintenance became a bill they couldn’t afford, and the state of Vermont barred any attempts at resurrecting the property due to defeating changes in zoning and building code regulations. Hyde Manor still has lead paint and asbestos and now, has deteriorated to such an extent that it is impossible to save.

Years of abandonment and neglect have really worn out the old hotel. Most of the smaller buildings that surrounded the manor have almost completely fallen over, and the main house itself is in an extremely sorry state. Mother nature is slowly reclaiming what was once hers, as trees and vines ensnare the hotel more with every year. It’s a vision that would make misery so proud.

Ever since my first visit, I’ve been coming back. During this time, I’ve witnessed it waste away in front of me. Narrow hallways, fleeting shadows, guestrooms painted in vibrant pallets have all faded. Admittedly, all my visits to Hyde Manor have left me surprised. While at first, I pictured this grand Vermont resort with airy and spacious rooms done in handmade craftsmanship, I was instead greeted with claustrophobia and a rambling layout that was more like a fun house than a grand hotel. All of the intoxicating features that my scanned brochure all advertised (quite successfully) were untraceable, much to my disappointment. There was no long narrow amusement hall, no bowling alley, no barber shop, no springs house. But, the springs, which are much older than the manor, can still be found alongside the back of the property in a ravine wild with scrub and low growth.

Walking through dark and silent hallways as my feet crunched over plaster dust created an atmosphere that would feel more at home in a dream I once had. The smell of mold, rot and stale air was nauseating. Its cosmetic wounds are destructive. Where rain and snow have infiltrated through the broken ceiling, the rot is spreading rapidly like blood veins up the walls. What hasn’t collapsed yet has mercifully adapted the colors of deterioration into the already striking palette of its walls, the foul smells eagerly communicating with passing visitors. But this show is just beginning. Doors hang off their hinges, dressers fall through weak floors and peeling wallpaper provides makeshift curtains for shifting walls. And it will only get better.

Inside, it’s hard not to feel humbled here. You’re walking around the ruins of the grand dream of someone you’ve never met, now left for you to discover and make your own.

You want to make a place like Hyde Manor your own, it practically invites it. To take pictures, to explore, to be inspired. It’s an irresistible impulse. And that’s what I live for. While the chaotic world outside somehow still exists, inside these forsaken locations is another world entirely that exists in perpetual haze, something you can take with you or leave behind. But while urban explorers like myself love this feeling, others hate it. Property owners, police officers and concerned neighbors who hate the attention, who hate how we wallow in their despairs, picking at the scars. And if you get hurt inside, there are chances your isolation may be your own demise.

The building has sadly aged into such a dangerous state of decrepitude now that passage inside is unsafe, only the brave or wild-hearted make their entry through a broken window to communicate with its valiant ghosts that salivate from their tongues as you make your way through the wreckage. Hyde Manor grew up lonesome and one of a kind, and it seems that in death, the same can be said. Its cherished memories of former guests that have long turned into dust and forsaken artifacts underneath crumbling ceilings that won’t be saving its soul anymore.

Hyde Manor in its heyday:

From the Hyde Manor promotional booklet, 1901

A signed A. W. Hyde letter from Hyde manor 1886 – courtesy of Joel VanPatten, who kindly sent me a scan via email.

Hyde Manor today

The images below were taken over my various visits to Hyde Manor, ranging roughly from 2009, to 2016. Some photos have never been posted before, others have been re-edited. Some of these photos were taken way back in my past life, when I was learning how to use a camera, and coming to a realization that I wanted to become the person I am today, and therefore may not be my best quality as my recent posts, but the ones I’ve uploaded are passable in my opinion – and more importantly to me – help tell a story. Hope you enjoy.

The last standing wall of the former restaurant, which was once raved about in travel guidebooks. In 1850, Benson Lossing exclaimed in The Field Guide to the American Revolution, that “a table equaled to Hyde’s” has become a proverbial expression of praise among tourists, for it is his justifiable boast that he spreads the choicest repasts that are given between Montréal and New Orleans. ” The restaurant was one of the first parts of the manor to collapse and is now a twisted indistinguishable pile of rotten building materials.

This section of the hotel was known as "The Terrace Suites", an out building of the main house with rooms that featured entrances on an outdoor terrace area - the focal point being a stone adorned fountain area. — This section of the hotel was known as “The Terrace Suites”, an out building behind the main house with rooms that featured entrances on an outdoor terrace area – the focal point being a stone adorned fountain area.

The imprint of the old fountain, with it's turquoise painted containment pool still detectable through dead leaves. — The imprint of the old fountain, with its turquoise painted containment pool still detectable through dead leaves.

The former men's cigar lounge, identified by it's 8 sided structure and dramatic peaked roof, is one of the very few restored buildings on the property. — The former men’s cigar lounge, identified by it’s 8 sided structure and dramatic peaked roof, is one of the very few restored buildings on the property.

This has to be one of my favorite pictures I’ve taken. In 2011, a massive crack was heard bellowing through the Sudbury woods, followed by a hideous collapse that startled wildlife and neighboring residences. When the dust settled, the pieces of the puzzle were revealed. Part of Hyde Manor’s second floor had finally given way, due to years of water damage and rot. When that gave, the upper floors tumbled down with it, creating a huge hole in the front of the building – a landscape of vibrant exposed wallpapers and hanging doors. This picture was taken from the first floor, through the chunk of a former doorway of a guest room that had settled near the staircase. Through the door, it gives you a bizarre perspective of the 2nd and 3rd floors, and the individual guest rooms (or what’s left of them)

Hyde Manor, October 2016

This really choked me up.

Hyde Manor Winter 2018

I had received an email from my good friend and fellow writer Bill Alexander of Vermont.com, asking me if I knew Hyde Manor had collapsed. After a few seconds of bewilderment, I put down my coffee, texted a friend, and the next day I was traveling down into Vermont’s beautiful lake region that was gloomy and gray that particular day.

Bill wasn’t kidding – another huge chunk of the manor had collapsed. I wasn’t there 7 minutes when a car with red plates pulled up next to me. The owner, who still lives in the old bowling alley on the property, had seen the car I was in come to a stop out in front on the road and immediately called the cops. The power that be, though, was an incredibly amicable fellow. He smiled, we chatted, he told me that I wasn’t doing anything wrong (I wasn’t on her property, I was on the shoulder of the road), and that the big collapse happened just last night. “Just don’t go anywhere near the building” he warned with concern in his voice.

He didn’t have to tell me that. Another friend, explorer, and photographer who, unlike me, isn’t at all bothered by temperatures in the -40 variety, said he ran into a Catamount (that’s Vermont parlance for mountain lion) inside the old hotel.

Some introductions; that great octagonal building used to be the men’s cigar and billiards room, now restored. The long narrow building to the right hidden by the trees is the old bowling alley – one of the oldest in the country. The original Narragansett and Brunswick hardware is all still there – but according to another friend who had a brief conversation with the owner, it’s all buried underneath lumber and junk.

The old clubhouse. Hyde Manor was once home to one of the first 9 hole golf courses in the country when the activity was in its infancy. Today, the old course just looks like any other overgrown field along this busy VT state route down towards Bomoseen. I loved the wild organic shapes this, uh, structure, was making in its transformation.

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