Time machines have as of
yet not been invented, but cars have a century been in popular utilization, and
I have found them to aptly serve a similar purpose, without sacrificing the experiential
value in “getting there.” Given the right route, one can hop in a car, drive a
few hours, and find themselves in the midst of a culture minutely varied, but
so as to suggest the loss of a few decades of what they call forward progress. I
have found this to be true of most routes leading out of Megalopolis and
adjacent developments and into the North Woods.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
It’s commonly said that
life is slower in the south, but I’d offer New England as more qualified for
the classification. A northerly latitude lengthens days in the summer, and
fewer people and less development breeds fewer distractions from some of the
last remaining expanses of true wilderness left on the East Coast. A sporting
culture permeates deeper in the day-to-day, compared to its relative absence in
more urbanized localities.
One such route recently
transported my time machine and I to a township called Second College Grant, or
“The Grant,” as it is referred to by citizens of nearby Errol, New Hampshire
and others geographically related.
With a population of
zero, The Grant is more of a resource investment than a town. In 1807, its
27,000 acres were donated to Dartmouth College. Thereafter, the property has
been actively logged to provide scholarship funds for students, and well-managed
for public outdoor recreation. As such, it carries all the time-ago drama of a
working northern forest.
Unless you happen to be
one of the oft-manipulated, Dartmouth-associated gate key-bearers, the gravel
road that traverses the property is restricted to foot-travel. Therefore, much
of the interior remains rugged wilderness.
The Grant’s main road
parallels the Dead Diamond River, which is the largest unstocked native brook
trout stream in the state, and plays host to some of New Hampshire’s last remaining
mythically proportioned brook trout.
The river still has
brook trout, but not like they’ve been written about finning the dark pools of
the river in centuries past. Recent years have seen the illegal introduction of
smallmouth bass in the Umbagog National Wildlife Refuge downstream, and the
resultant invasion of the bass upstream into brookie territory.
Black bear, moose,
deer, squirrels, and various other creatures thrive on the property. One could
argue that active logging keeps up a healthy population of grouse, individual
members of which seem to be so isolated as to be relatively unafraid of
approaching humans, and which mystify my upland bird-deprived Virginia
sensibilities upon every encounter.
“Our grouse situation
is still pretty good,” are the words that ground me.
Another route took my
time machine even further into the past.
Kokadjo, Maine is a
town of a trading post with one worker, no gas station, and a famous brook
trout and salmon stream. KOKADJO. POP: NOT MANY are the words that greet the
traveler, and I fear the plurality of the word “many” might be a subtle
overstatement.
13 miles by logging
road north of Kokadjo sits a small homestead of old sporting camps on SpencerPond, owned by husband and wife—Dana Black, a registered Maine guide and lobsterman,
and Christine Howe, also a registered Maine guide with an environmental
education and a history with the EPA.
That I ended up on
their doorstep was by chance and grace, but I quickly found that my time
machine had done its job satisfactorily. Among the Spencer Pond Camps, there is
no electricity or running water. Just kerosene lanterns, a wood stove, a well
pump, and a solar bag for washing behind the ears as is often necessary when
bushwhacking through northern forest as I do every day, these days. And so
there is room to wonder about the way life used to be and other things of rival
romance.
Between the camps and
the closest incorporated establishment sit thousands of acres of “big woods,”
complete with unnamed, walk-in brook trout ponds, and a population of bear and
moose that easily outnumbers people.
In talking about
fishing, Dana, who is learning the art of fly fishing, told me of the brook
trout pond fishing in the area.
“Maine still has pretty
good pond fishing for brook trout,” he said.
Maine is widely held as
our nation’s last foothold for vital populations of native brook trout, and so
it struck me that I had been encountering the word “still” a little too often,
and it made me nervous. To paraphrase the great conservationist, Aldo Leopold,
given the chance to go forward or go fishing, I’d quickly choose fishing, but I
fear the world is developing in the opposite direction. □
*Originally published in the Rural Virginian