Part 2

Mount Hopkins—so named in honor of Professor Albert Hopkins of Williams, the first nature-student of our land, making excursions afield in 1833—lies south of these. Old Greylock, proper, lifts its lofty brow still farther south, being situated about in the centre of this great range as it extends from east to west.

Beyond Greylock stretches a long, misty line of blue peaks against the sky, which if observed from Mount Œta at the north, in Bennington County, Vermont, may be traced to the southwest to Symond’s Peak, the lowest of the group, named in memory of Captain Symond, who led the volunteer forces from our hills and vales to the memorable Battle of Bennington in 1777. Bald Mountain is also in the vicinity, and the closing in of these several peaks has conspired to form what is known as the “Hopper,” and the “Heart of Greylock.” The hollow vale amid these heights has the appearance of the hoppers used by millers years ago.

Surely in the heart of the Taconics we are in one of the oldest rock formations of the earth, and the green terraced stairs lead us slowly down to the deep-set valley of the Hoosac, where once slept that ancient lake. All that now remains of that Lake of Dawn is pocketed in the basin under the Hoosac. The shores of Aurora’s Lake are lonely and still, save for the marsh thrushes which skim low over the waves and whistle shrilly. The groves of pine to the southeast are the haunts of solitude, and those who wander here can well imagine that the Æolian harps among the whispering trees are repeating a music of ages past, when only wind and waves were known to these hills.

Amid these damp and reedy shores and swampy woods are tall brakes and delicate Maiden-Hair Ferns. Here, too, the tall and stately Royal-Fern (_Osmunda regalis_) flourishes in deep seclusion, sheltered by the low-branching pines along the shore. It grows from two to four feet high in this locality, and is of a deep rich crimson-green tone against the grasses and bushes near. Mounds of moss, marking one of the trees of a primitive forest rotting below the soil, are thickly carpeted with the leaves of the Dog’s-Tooth Lily. Indeed, the picturesque paths which lead through these woods wind through a veritable fairy-land of flowers and ferns. One of these trails runs southward through rocky pastures, swamps and thickets, toward the Tunnel’s western gate.

Along these slopes, among the limestone rocks, I found rows of the Ebony Spleenwort Fern, rather rare in this much-travelled way; and on the brow of this ridge were many species of common fern. The pastures are barren and dry, with few bushes to break the dreary horizon, as one approaches the western portal of the Tunnel.

I came upon one lone Apple-Thorn bush, of genus _Cratægus_ of the Apple Family. Nearly opposite, across the valley of the south branch of the Hoosac, which the Indians named the Ashuilticook, may be distinguished the smoking Limekilns; while still farther southward, the white-spired village of Adams nestles at the base of Greylock, which towers serenely above the shaggy shoulders of Ragged Mountain. I wandered about the edges of the Tunnel cliffs where, in years gone by, had stood the impoverished cabins which sheltered the laborers who tunnelled the Hoosac. I descended into the chasm and seated myself upon the wall of rocks, waiting for the trains to appear and disappear at the portal in the side of the hill. Presently one from the West crept ponderously into the cavern. The echoing roar was smothered, and died slowly away until it became an indistinct murmur. Not long afterward I felt, as well as heard, the low breathings and rumblings of a locomotive coming in the opposite direction. I heard its subterranean groans as of a great spirit, while the smoke poured forth, pushed in volumes before the engine, wreathing and curling about it as it emerged, and partially concealing its grim outlines.

The faithful watchman, a modern Eckhart, sits before the entrance of the Western Gateway of Hoosac Mountain, and warns the people against entering through this portal to the greater world that lies beyond. It is as if he wished to guard these children of the marble highlands from the risks attendant upon the wild whirl of life beyond these quiet hills.

The sun was setting as I left him, calm but alert, at his post of duty, trimming and lighting his colored lanterns for signals of danger or safety to the approaching trains. Climbing up by the path which passes the little red cottage on the crest of the hill on the north bank of the chasm, I returned leisurely homeward, winding over the hillsides, far above Aurora’s Lake, then down along the borders of the swamp-lands. In the crevices of rock were creeping colonies of the Common Polypody (_Polypodium vulgare_). Along the edges of this bog are still seen the primeval stumps of the pine and hemlock forests, which clothed these hillsides when only the Redmen dwelt and hunted among these wildernesses.

In May and early June these decaying stumps are usually draped with Painted Trillium and the delicate vines of Gaultheria and the Creeping Snowberry, while the Arbutus trails about luxuriantly, covering up the ruins of years.

[Illustration: =The Western Gateway of Hoosac Mountain, the Entrance to Hoosac Tunnel, North Adams, Massachusetts.=]

II

Ball Brook and the Bogs of Etchowog

Fringing the stream, at every turn Swung low the waving fronds of fern; From stony cleft and mossy sod Pale asters sprang, and golden-rod.

WHITTIER, _The Seeking of the Waterfall_.

On May 25th I reached Pownal, Bennington County. Upon the following day I explored the great swamps of Etchowog. Prepared with luncheon, vasculum, basket for roots and my hound Major, I started on one of those happy excursions such as Thoreau recommends we should take, “in the spirit of undying adventure, never to return,—prepared to send back our embalmed hearts only as relics to our desolate kingdoms.”[2]

Ball Brook, a sluggish stream flowing northwardly to East Pownal swamps—commonly called the Bogs of Etchowog—has its source in the marshy hillsides northwest of the schoolhouse in District Fourteen. Two streams flow from this valley. One is called Ladd Brook, running southwesterly and following the windings of the shady Ladd Road to Pownal village, where it joins the Hoosac River. The other stream, Ball Brook, flows north and northeast onward through innumerable and unfathomable swamps, to Bennington village, ten miles north, there meeting the Walloomsac River, which is also a tributary of the Hoosac, farther northward in its course. This brook is rich in a continuous chain of peat bogs—rich from an orchid-hunter’s point of view.

Although I have been familiar with this region from childhood, viewing it from the roadside only, I never at any time had ventured to follow Ball Brook through all its meanderings to the Bogs of Etchowog near Pownal Pond, a distance of some three miles. This would not be a long walk on a fair road, but it becomes rather dangerous and formidable when leading through quaking marshes in the soaking currents of a stream.

A short distance to the right, north of the schoolhouse in Number Fourteen, there is an old pathway nearly overgrown with bushy pines and birch and chestnut underbrush. This I followed, entering the hollow under the brow of the hill, and passing along the wood road which skirts the margins of one of the deepest, darkest jungles in these regions. The old people look upon it as akin to “Witch Hollow,” on the Gulf Road near by, and tell strange tales of ghosts, and of some mythological peddler who was swallowed here in the black mud of this ancient tarn, after having been robbed of his fine silks and precious jewels.

Weird, hollow drummings issue and echo through these shaded vales from time to time. Probably they are due, however, to nothing more startling than the alarum of a partridge, or the hoot of the screech-owl; or the creaking and rubbing of partially fallen trees against their supporting brothers, voicing a portent of coming storm. I hear in this woodland seclusion little save the whispering of the winds, the sighing of the pines, and snapping of dead twigs, mingled with the chorus of the thrushes. The first settlers here about interpreted these wood-sounds far differently; then the primeval forests were dense, and the noises were deep and full of mystery, and there was fear of the Redman’s war-whoop. As Burroughs writes: “The ancients, like women and children, were not accurate observers. Just at the critical moment their eyes were unsteady, or their fancy, or their credulity, or their impatience got the better of them, so that their science was half fact and half fable.... They sought to account for such things without stopping to ask, Are they true? Nature was too novel, or else too fearful to them to be deliberately pursued and hunted down.”[3]

I stopped on a corduroy bridge to draw on my high-water boots and rubber gloves, for one feels safer when entering this dense swamp if protected from poisonous roots and foliage, biting insects and things that creep and crawl.

I had started out with small belief that I would find any prime blossoms of the Orchid Family, for nothing of importance had yet unfolded in Aurora’s Swamp in North Adams. But when I penetrated the heart of these rich, warm glooms, I found waiting for me a fragrant company of Dwarf Yellow Lady’s Slipper (_Cypripedium parviflorum_); and innumerable Stemless Pink Lady’s Slippers, more frequently called the Indian’s Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium acaule_), stood as sentinels on the dryer edges of the swamp.

The Marsh Marigolds were here also in their last stages, fading away, but still sufficiently bright; with the late indigo-blue violets, which rear their faces at least a foot high above the dark pools, to carpet the marsh with gold and purple. Poison Ivy cropped out frequently among these graceful orchids,—a beautiful vine, although unfriendly to man.

It is difficult to describe the dense gloom of this bog, closed in on all sides by high rock-bound hills, which are clothed with pine and yellow birch trees, and which in their turn are but foothills to the higher watershed. It seems to have been a receiving basin for the waste and wear of the heights above for thousands of years. Here are fallen trees of every variety common in southwestern Vermont, and these prostrate giants helped to form a safe footing through the quaking bogs.

Many cold springs under the hill to the south conspire to freshen the marsh, and after sluggish oozing northward, they unite and form the brook proper. The stream leads directly through the heart of the swamp, and at last, gathering force, rushes down over rocky slopes, presently to enter another swamp of greater breadth, filled with different trees and flowers.

[Illustration: =Ball Brook, in the Swamp of Oracles, Pownal, Vermont.=

“_Here, let these rivulets forever flow!_ _Drink from these highland domes the melting snow;_ _Drain from the dark ravines, and hollows near,_ _The mountain cascades, flowing soft and clear._”

G. G. N.]

The Showy Lady’s Slipper (_Cypripedium reginæ_) was just sending forth its tiny roll of leaves, so I could not expect prime blossoms before June 15th at the earliest.

Seated on a decaying log, I ate my luncheon, with Major before me begging impolitely for his portion, until I divided my cake with him. The mosquitoes were so troublesome that I decided to push onward. Carefully picking my way out of the swamp, I crossed the muddy brook, and found myself in a dry, rocky pathway which winds around the hillside, but still keeps within sound of the brook’s murmur.

In exquisite little glens beside the path were Painted Trilliums and Stars-of-Bethlehem, while the white and gold stars of the dainty Goldthread (_Coptis trifolia_) were shining amid the moss and their own glossy green leaves.

In the bend of the stream a little farther on were some of the most graceful little ferns, just near enough to the brink to catch now and then a dash of spray from the rushing waters, swayed in the coolness all day long, adding beauty to the nook.

Still farther on, I saw that by crossing the stream I could enter a little ravine to the right, which promised hidden treasures. I waded through the brook, which was too wide to jump across; I found that it was also rather too deep for my boots, and that there were very few stepping-stones to make a dry crossing possible. But of what matter is a little water in one’s boots, when seeking the Gardens of the Gods? I landed safely on the opposite bank, after frightening many a shy, speckled trout from his hiding-place in this ideal fishing-hole.

I was now in a small, low-lying glen where foot of man has seldom been. The soil, though much drier than the ground over which I had recently passed, displayed a honeycombed appearance, showing where the water had oozed away through the rich leaf-mould to seek the flowing stream beyond.

Whole constellations of star-flowers were here; both the Painted and Crimson or Nodding Trilliums were abundant, asserting themselves and their rights, if size of flowers and leaves may indicate strength, among the tall, rank growth of the Common Brake (_Pteris aquilina_), which frequently rise five feet in height. Close by their long, harsh lobes grew the plicate leaves of the Indian Poke or White Hellebore. Skunk Cabbage (_Spathyema fœtida_), so frequent in the swamps along Bronx River in Greater New York, is rarely seen here, although I find lone specimens now and then in Aurora’s Swamp in northern Berkshire, and in this jungle. Lily leaves and Dwarf Cornel peeped out from every shadow. Here I found the red-spotted leaves of Dog’s-Tooth Lily (_Erythronium Americanum_) and Clintonia (_Clintonia borealis_), as well as the delicate leaves of the False Lily-of-the-Valley (_Unifolium Canadense_), and several species of Solomon’s Seal, while the weird Indian Cucumber (_Medeola Virginiana_) rose up everywhere beneath the luxuriant ferns.

Dwarf Cornel, or Bunch Berry, locally known as Bear Berry (_Cornus Canadensis_) was about to set its fruit. These berries are of a deep vermilion color, and eatable if one has the patience to sever the seeds. From the bark of this species of the Dogwood Family is extracted a tonic which is very bitter.

I found the beautiful Star-Flowered Solomon’s Seal (_Vagnera stellata_), and the deeper bogs revealed specimens of the rarer bog species, _Vagnera trifolia_, which, in spite of its name, produced plants with more than three leaves, and many beautiful fragrant flowers of a waxy white color. Indian Turnip (_Arisæma triphyllum_), more commonly known to-day as Jack-in-the-Pulpit, was numberless; the little priests in the pulpits were dressed in cardinal’s robes trimmed with stripes of green, white, and purple.

This sylvan retreat which yielded so many specimens of beautiful flowers I called the “Glen of Comus,” for I could not rid my thoughts of the deep, dark woodlands where Sabrina was lost among the enchanters.[4] I fancied that the Purple Trilliums stood with nodding petals bowed down to earth as though they were guilty of some crimson sin and dared not lift their faces to the sun.

I gathered from every species some perfect treasure, and then returned, wandering once more beside the cool brook. I wondered if it carried all the memories of the forest fastness, gleaned among the roots of our frail, beautiful hillside flowers, through the mighty rivers to the deep seaweeds and strange aquatic blossoms which had at one time bloomed among these very hills ages and ages ago.

Climbing a fence, I found myself in a parched, short-cropped cow-pasture, but the stream soon passed into a large tamarack swamp, where in many places neither man nor beast can wander with ease or safety. I rested under a wide-spreading pine tree, looking the marsh over to choose the best path through it, for I still had some distance to walk before I could reach Pownal Pond and the Bogs of Etchowog.

In order to make my journey less burdensome, I decided to leave my treasures of gold and crimson hidden in this stream, where they would not only keep fresh, but would be much safer than with me. I felt that they would be reasonably safe from marauders, for orchids are far more numerous than human beings in this forlorn locality; for where verdant meadows might spread were only uncultivated, almost impassable, dismal swamp-lands.

At last my flowers were safely placed in the bend of the brook near an old pine stump, where I made them fast, covering them with the coarse brakes which grow everywhere; then I strode on northward through the tamarack swamp. This marsh covers a large part of Ball Farm, from which the brook crossing it derives its name.

Through the trees I could see the old weather-worn farm buildings, nestling in the shade of a dozen or more large, thrifty maples, and now and then I heard a faint murmur of distant voices. Suddenly they subsided, and a small dog’s shrill bark told me that I was discovered, mistaken perhaps for the veritable “Witch of the Hollow,” by the present colored occupants.

There was no use in trying to follow the stream now, for its windings were intricate and indefinite. It wandered all over the meadow marsh, and splashed out in one great mud-hole, similar to that of the jungle in District Fourteen, save that the meadow here was open, with very little low tangle or underbrush in sight. Innumerable tamarack trees, however, lifted their graceful spires throughout the bog; yet this did not prevent the meadow from appearing flooded with sunshine.

Away over on the west side of this swamp were many low-spreading trees of virgin pine, contrasting prettily with the lighter greens of the delicate spires of tamarack. Between myself and the shore on either side of this mud-swamp waved acres of Fleur-de-lis, which would soon color the whole meadow with royal purple. Still westward of this lay an alder swamp. This shrub, called Speckled or Hoary Alder, belongs to the Willow Family, and grows about fifteen feet high, along swamp meadows, forming dense thickets.

Many saucy swamp birds dwell here and appear tame; they came chattering after me, fearing, no doubt, that I might be in search of their nests and birdlings.

Under the pines on the border of the swamp I rested, finding the while tender young Wintergreens (_Gaultheria_), and many edible red berries, called Checkerberries, fruit of _Gaultheria_, sometimes known as Partridge-berry and Boxberry. The last two names are more frequently applied to the fruit of _Mitchella repens_, found growing in company with _Gaultheria_, and producing edible scarlet berries on a trailing vine, resembling myrtle. The flowers of this vine were now in bloom, giving forth a delicate perfume. Their white and pinkish-purple blossoms dotted the moss with a brilliancy like that of the Trailing Arbutus (_Epigæa repens_), so lately faded.

The buds of _Moneses uniflora_ were putting forth their “single-delight,” the name coming from their solitary flower. Here also were quantities of the glossy, waxen leaves of Pipsissewa or Prince’s Pine (_Chimaphila_), and low creeping evergreens. Common Club-Moss and Ground-Pine were interlaced in their dark green beds, where had recently nestled the clusters of arbutus, now brown and faded, although the mossy hummocks still held the fragrance of their luxuriant green leaves. Whittier, writing of these spicy flowers, associated them as the first flowers which the Pilgrims looked upon after their landing on the bleak shores of New England, at Plymouth, in the spring of 1621, and says:

Yet, “God be praise!” the Pilgrim said, Who saw the blossoms peer Above the brown leaves, dry and dead, “Behold our Mayflower here!”[5]

In New England the Arbutus is commonly called “Mayflower,”—not that it blooms especially in the month of May, for it has been found in northern Berkshire as early as February and March. My observation is that prime blossoms are found in the Hoosac Valley region from March 15th until May 15th. I have also gathered beautiful clusters as late as June 23d, in cold nooks beneath the shades of spruce and pines. Their spicy perfume is ever the delight of New Englanders.

[Illustration: =The Showy Lady’s Slipper—The Queen of the Indian’s Moccasin-Flowers.= (_Cypripedium reginæ._)

Few poets have ever sung the praises of the Queen of the Moccasin-Flowers, although a lovelier flower never beckoned to poetic fancy.]

Scrambling with difficulty over a fence which sagged toward me, I entered a neighboring pasture, finding here more alder trees. Small tamaracks, Christmas spires of spruce, and pine seedlings filled the pasture with fresh evergreens, making me fancy myself in a cultivated park, so regular and trim they stood. Eastward crept Ball Brook, wandering through deep, reedy grasses, where here and there stood tall spikes of last year’s Cat-tail Flag (_Typha_). Here also grows the Sweet Flag or Calamus (_Acorus_), which is not only good to eat, but a panacea for sore eyes. The cat-tails stood stiffly erect, as if guarding the blossoming bog, and serving, notwithstanding their dignity, as perches for the saucy finches which still chattered after me.

Now I passed through a barway to the right, ever in hearing of the gurgling stream, which had reached a hard, dry, gravelly soil, abruptly following the downward slope around a hillside. A well-worn sheep path led me down into a bog similar to the Glen of Comus in District Fourteen, only if anything more wild and weird. Through the openings between the trees and knob-like glacial hills, I caught glimpses of the bold, rugged form of the Dome, standing coldly against the eastern horizon.

A glance through these glooms revealed another colony of the Showy or White-petalled Lady’s Slippers just bursting forth from the earth, perhaps four inches high. I have found them frequently in these bogs, when full-grown, standing three feet tall, but the usual height is about two feet; and in open meadow swamps often only eighteen inches, owing to the crowded soil, choked with grasses and low shrubs. In about three weeks these bogs would be gay with dainty Moccasin-Flowers.

In the upper part of this swamp, I found a rather quaking corner devoted entirely to the deep green leaves and tall, white-bearded spikes of the not common Buckbean (_Menyanthes trifoliata_), a distant cousin of the Blue Fringed Gentian. I know of several colonies of this rare plant in the bogs hereabout, where it grows plentifully, in its pet localities. It is liable to grow ever undisturbed, I am sure, since it chooses such dangerous swamps in which to flourish.

Thoreau mentions that Hodge the geologist once found at least an acre of this species. He writes: “We reached Shad Pond, or Noliseemack, an expansion of the river. Hodge, the assistant State Geologist, who passed through this region on the 25th of June, 1837, says, ‘We pushed our boats through an acre or more of buckbeans, which had taken root at the bottom, and bloomed above the surface in the greatest profusion and beauty.’”[6]