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Rediscovering the Connecticut Wilderness — Part 1
By Scott Whittaker and Michael Kabelka
Perhaps you have seen, from time to time, a sign at the side of the road—a blue oval with white letters bearing strange Indian names, announcing a brown path that fades into the woods. Or perhaps you have hiked part of the "blue trail" and wondered how far it goes into the gray woods and to where. My friends and I, avid hikers, wondered the same, when our eyes fell upon these signs after returning from lofty backpacking trips in Colorado and Arizona. Seeking local adventure, we shunned the obligatory hiking of the Appalachian Trail that represents the zenith of hiking in Connecticut, choosing instead to explore the wilderness backcountry of our state.
When one thinks about hiking, one does not tend to think about Connecticut. Visions of Rocky Mountain vistas and Grand Canyon depths leap to the mind instead. In addition to discovering the trail less traveled, our purpose in this suburban hiking adventure was to bring attention to the remaining wild areas of Connecticut, a state on the frontlines in the fight against urban sprawl. Under pressure from development, a large portion of Connecticut’s history is being trodden down along with the wilderness and the trails that run through it. However, some of that New England charm is still there for those who look hard enough and who can put it all together from the pieces of the Humpty Dumpty that it is becoming. The Mattatuck Trail is such an example.
The Mattatuck Trail winds like a snake for approximately 38 miles through central Connecticut, connecting the town of Wolcott to Litchfield. Part of the "Blue Blaze" network of hiking trails, the Mattatuck was first officially recognized in 1929 when a group of individuals founded the Connecticut Forest and Parks Association (CFPA). Today this complex of trails, covering more than 700 miles in total, is maintained by the all-volunteer CFPA. This organization also publishes a guide called the Connecticut Walk Book that describes the major trails in Connecticut, complete with maps. This is an invaluable tool for mapping out hikes and we referenced it a great deal.
How the trail may have originally come about is obscured in the mystery of history. Perhaps these were wooded Indian paths or the highways of the day, but today the Mattatuck Trail and the other Blue Blaze trails skirt through and across the suburban and urban landscape. Most of the trails regularly cross private property, as they weave a complex pattern that stitches Connecticut’s remaining wild areas together.
 | | Mike rests near Indian Jack Cave in Plymouth. |
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The trails have been changed and re-routed many times over the decades, as development and suburban sprawl have squeezed out the natural areas with which Connecticut was once rich. While under attack, these trails are not gone forever, however, as dedicated legions of people such as the CFPA safeguard the last bastions of Connecticut wilderness. Even today, over 60% of Connecticut is still forested. From the many rocky slab ridges, this fact is driven home as the eye wanders over the sea of green that is our home.
We hiked from south to north on a sunny Friday morning, beginning along the Mad River in Wolcott. The trail begins humbly enough, alongside a local basketball court. The first stretch, however, is quite scenic, passing many small waterfalls that would make a nice repose for a family on a lazy summer afternoon.
It does not take long before the trail reveals a part of its true nature, as it gets lost in a swampy wasteland area. Most people would turn back here, I presume. We were daunted as we lost the trail for the first time (but not the last), but persevered until we picked it up again. Once through this, the trail skirts homes and cuts across roads, making its way to Plymouth. Soon we encountered one of the hike’s highlights, Indian Jack Cave. More a hollow in a rock face, legend has it that a Native American lived in this cave at around the turn of the 20th century. Today it bears the pictographs of teenagers leaving their own marks in spray paint. When I first visited here years ago, it seemed so remote, but today it is easy to make out the coloration of homes through the trees.
The trail led us out of the woods to a spot where it ran along the road, and moving quickly past people’s driveways, we wondered to each other what others might be thinking of us as they drove past. Then the trail cut back into the woods and down along Buttermilk Falls, one of Connecticut’s best, but little known, natural features. It was a joy to behold on a warm spring day as we skipped from rock to rock, our packs seemingly lightened by the dappled sun and the heady scent of spring wildflowers. We dropped our loads and enjoyed it while it lasted.
From there things got tough. More roads, then back into the woods. Uphill through a tunnel of laurel, I wished they were in bloom. The trail quickly became confused and so did we, as we stood at the intersection of several brown woods roads with no signs of any kind. When hiking in Connecticut it is a regular event to come upon these old unpaved fire roads in the woods. We picked one, using only intuition, and moved on. Again and again we faced this dilemma. One time we saw a state DEP car in the middle of the woods. No one was around. How did it get here? Why was it there? There was no one to ask.
Finally, we emerged from the forest into a sand pit area on the border of Army Corps of Engineers property. It looked like a place that would be left over after a nuclear war. Rusty old drums and bits of twisted metal lined the dirt road. Here great holes have been torn in the earth for some reason unknown to us. There was a strange juxtaposition between the sight before us and the smell of honeysuckle on the breeze.
We came out of the woods, and went back into the woods. Then we encountered the first real uphill section, and the going slowed down. Again we lost the trail as it meandered into a swamp, and we cared not to. We went up, and then down. Another road, and then another. We walked for about a mile on the street—hard on our feet. A man in his yard asked if we were looking for snow, obviously a remark aimed at us because of our trekking poles—walking sticks that look like ski poles. We didn’t need them on the road, but they have become a habit from past treks. We were sure we looked a sight and we laughed at ourselves.
Finally, back into the woods, but alas, up a steep hill. We passed the remains of an old foundation and stopped to look in silent reverie. Huffing and puffing, we crested the hill. The trail skirted the crown, but we went straight up, bushwhacking, eager to see the view. We reached a woody knoll under lofty hardwoods. New spring grass emerged at our feet and erupted in a riot of red columbine—thousands of them. This was more wild columbine than I had ever seen, and I have hiked a lot in Connecticut. This was Mt. Tobe on the Thomaston line. I renamed it Columbine Hill—they must be happy there.
Then, there it was: our view, and a grand one at that! We stood atop a rock ledge looking south over Thomaston, Watertown and Waterbury. A sea of green broken by a ribbon of black highway, Route 8, lay before us. We rested for a while, but realized we had wandered off the trail. Where was it? We turned around and there was a blaze on a tree. We were on the trail! We had hiked 12 miles in about 7 hours. We had walked to the end of Friday.
A hawk admired me as I lay on a rock; perhaps he thought he had found a banquet. We rested our soles and our souls.
To be continued …
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