They say not all who wander are lost. However, that wasn’t the case for me the other day.
I set out for a last-minute hike at the Charity Lot off Bernardston’s Bald Mountain Road.
I’d been out to the 84-acre town-owned forest a few years ago, but I had a guide. I’d tagged along with John Lepore, a local resident and sustainable landscape designer who was working on a master plan for the site, which has since been adopted by the town.
He’d taken me to a ridge on the property with a westward view of the hills across Interstate 91. I thought it would make a great place to catch the sunset — if I could remember how to get there.
I parked at the trail head, gathered my camera, phone and a headlamp — just in case I was still in the woods when it got dark.
I headed up the trail, and soon came to a fork. The left side seemed to go parallel to the road, while the wider trail at the right headed up the hill.
The path on the right looked familiar. One side was flat, while the other was scarred by a trench a couple feet deep, the result of runoff. I remembered coming back down from the ridge that way, so I decided to take it up.
The hike was a little steep at points, and about halfway up I started to curse myself for not bringing water. I trudged on, eventually coming to another fork. The wide trail I’d been hiking continued past a “No Trespassing” sign. So, I went left onto a narrower trail.
This path was much less maintained, obscured by underbrush and blocked by fallen trees in places. Just past the ruins of a wooden deer-stand, the trail seemed to vanish in a thin grove of large trees. The only obvious path was marked “Private Property.”
I nearly tripped as my boot caught a half-buried length of rusty old barbed wire.
I looked for another trail, and finally found one that would take me farther into the town forest, but it didn’t last long. It petered out again — and, again I searched, this time keeping an eye out for tripwires.
I followed the ridge line north, but the woods became thick and there was no trail in sight. I tried east, down the hill and back toward the road, but had the same result.
With the daylight dwindling, I decided to head back toward the forest’s entrance. I doubled back to where I’d lost the trail, and tried the south, rather than backtrack east from where I came.
I found the path, completely obscured by brush. I shook my head and followed it down the hill.
Soon, a familiar sight appeared through the trees — the edge of the washout on the main trail. I cut through the woods, making a bee-line for it.
When I got back to that first fork I’d come to, I decided to try the other trail for a ways. This, too, had its own forks. I plodded on, passing by the first side trail. I saw a break in the trees near a rise, and stopped there to see the start of a lackluster sunset. I continued on, and the trail began to climb the hill.
By then, I was confident that I was on the right path to the hilltop view, but it was too late. I knew I couldn’t get too lost — all I’d have to do is follow the setting sun and the sounds of the interstate — but knowing the way doesn’t do any good if you trip on a root in the dark and break a leg. I turned around, leaving the climb for another day.
David Rainville is a former reporter and editor for The Recorder, who now works as a machinist. He enjoys hiking, kayaking, biking, and finding new ways to explore the outdoors. You can reach him at daverain82@gmail.com