The Jericho Bridge, its weathered girder frame showing all 112 years of its age, spans the shadow-laden waters of the Naugatuck River amidst the wooded hills in Thomaston. Although it’s January in the valley and shelf ice is forming along the river banks, the molten light of dawn imparts the comforting illusion of warmth.
It’s difficult to overstate how big railroads used to be in Connecticut: not just in terms of their sprawl throughout the state, which was impressive, but in terms of the degree to which they dominated transportation. When the Jericho Bridge was built in 1907 to carry a line of the New York, New Haven & Hartford Railroad over the Naugatuck, it was just one, tiny facet of an immense railroad monopoly that would’ve seemed virtually infinite in its influence and power.
And yet, before Jericho Bridge had even a spot of rust, things were to begin slowly changing for the once-untouchable railroad giant. In time, the rise of automobiles and the subsequent development of highways changed the way we traveled, changed the way we transported goods and changed our society, in general. The Golden Age of the Railroad was arguably over by the 1920s and 1930s… though the industry struggled forth even as its eventual demise grew ever more imminent. All the Northeastern railroad titans just slowly fizzled away over decades of steady decline; most were ghosts of their former selves by the 1960s and 1970s, if they hadn’t thrown in the towel altogether. Remarkably, the Jericho Bridge and the Naugatuck line is still active to this day, though I can’t think of a time I’ve ever seen a single car on its tracks.
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In modern times, Cove Island is an inviting, landscaped park with broad grassy expanses, paved walking paths and benches that overlook Long Island Sound. Yet throughout the 19th century, this swath of coastal land was well-known as a place of business, initially hosting a modest grist mill which eventually developed into an industrial complex known as the “Cove Mills.”
But in an era before the electrical grid existed, and without a waterfall to turn a waterwheel or turbine, how could any mills have operated on Cove Island? Along the coast of Rhode Island to the east, it was not uncommon to harness the ocean breeze through the use of wind mills, but that wasn’t the only “alternative” means of operating a mill in New England. The Cove Mills made clever use of the tides with an old and especially ingenious method that extracted energy from the constant surge and withdrawal of seawater at the coast.
Known as a “tide mill” or “tidewater mill”, the Cove Mills employed a dam across the mouth of the Noroton River, positioned at a bottleneck just before it emptied into the sea at Cove Harbor. When the tide came in, generally rising between 6 and 9 feet, it would crest higher than the dam and fill the river basin upstream. When the tide withdrew, it would drop well-below the top of the dam, leaving millions of gallons of water trapped upstream. In this way, the river itself served as the mill pond for the Cove Mills. Water stored in the river after the tide withdrew was funneled from the dam through a sluice, creating an artificial “waterfall” that was harnessed to drive factory machinery. With each rise of the tide, the pond was refilled.
The proverbial Golden Age of the Cove Mills came in the 1890s. At that time, according to The Stamford Historical Society, the complex…
“…employed about 500 workers, with state-of-the-art facilities on 70 acres at the Cove, thousands of feet of mechanized wharves hosting big deep-sea schooners, a shipping company with four schooners, and a number of houses on [nearby] Weed Street.”
But just three decades later, shifts in markets and a corresponding failure on the part of owners to adapt to changing times had led to a dramatic decline of the Cove Mills. The future of the industrial complex as a profitable enterprise was already quite uncertain going into 1919, but by February of that year, it would cease to matter much anyway. A massive fire erupted in the facility on February 19th; by the next morning, the Cove Mills had burnt to the ground, never to be rebuilt.
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According to a 2015 report by the USDA, there’s somewhere in the realm of 806 million trees scattered throughout Connecticut’s forests. Of those, it’s probably safe to say that well over 99% of them are less than 200 years of age, if not significantly younger. Indeed, old-growth forest in the Nutmeg State is exceptionally scarce, limited to a few parcels of oftentimes rough terrain where trees have somehow managed to dodge forest fires, disease, tornadoes and the mighty ax for hundreds of years. But even those old-growth trees tend most often to be 250 to 350 years old. That brings me to the truly ancient white oak tree featured in my newly-released work: the venerable Granby Oak.
Estimated to be as much as 400 to 450 years old, the Granby Oak was likely a healthy sapling at about the time that the Pilgrims were first stepping foot on Cape Cod a hundred miles to the west in 1620. The quiet road in the hills that the tree stands beside today certainly didn’t exist yet. And for that matter, neither did the town of Granby or the Connecticut Colony. The vast and storied history that the Connecticut landscape has accrued since those earliest years before European settlement could fill volumes, and through it all, the Granby Oak has quietly minded its plot of soil… growing ever larger by the decade.
At the time of its last formal assessment, the Granby Oak’s trunk measured more than 20 feet in circumference. It’s grown to be a fairly squat tree, measuring a bit less than 80 feet tall, though this is probably because it sat amidst open farmland for a good deal of its mature years and simply didn’t need to race skywards in an effort to compete for sunlight, as one would expect in a forest environment. Instead of growing upward, the Granby Oak grew outward, its ancient gnarled branches eventually becoming so long and heavy that they came to rest upon the ground like wooden serpents.
Of course, the tree hasn’t exactly enjoyed an easy ride; at times, it’s been a struggle. There’s no doubt that the Granby Oak has endured several dozens of hurricanes and blizzards throughout its years, apparently no worse for the wear. Only in its advanced age does it seem to have weakened somewhat unto the rigors of time and happenstance. In 1997, the plot of land on which the tree stood was nearly sold for development as a home lot, only narrowly escaping that fate when locals thankfully rallied behind the Granby Land Trust to purchase the property instead and preserve the tree so long as it should go on living. But with one crisis averted, others were to follow. The Granby Oak was hit by a truck in 2010 and barely a year later it was mangled by a freak October snowstorm that mercilessly claimed a number of its branches. And yet, somehow, this sylvan relic of Connecticut’s North has managed to persist through it all.
But what lays ahead for the Granby Oak? If we are to consider the range of recorded ages for some of the oldest fallen white oaks in the Eastern United States, the Granby Oak would already seem to have cheated death out of as much as a century. In 2005, cross-dating of a remarkable white oak in Virginia revealed an age of 464 years, easily the most extraordinary specimen on record. And yet, if the Granby Oak’s estimated age is correct, then it’s quickly approaching even the most extreme known boundaries of longevity for the species. Truth be told, while the tree remains apparently healthy and hopefully endures for several more years to come, it seems quite unlikely that another century lays ahead. It stands today as an iconic and wondrous denizen of Connecticut, having outlived virtually all of the billions of trees that existed on the day it sprouted so very long ago. What a grand life it has lead! And going forward.. well… perhaps the conclusion of Connecticut writer Stephen Wood puts it best:
“It has certainly suffered mightily since I first visited. Major limbs have disappeared and others are not long for this world. Everything dies eventually, and when this tree suffers its final fate, we can’t be too sad.”
“An April Greeting” Roaring Brook at Cotton Hollow Preserve, Glastonbury, Connecticut
“The birds have a right to complain of misplaced confidence, and so have we, since the blandness of spring the day before deluded us into regarding her intentions as honourable,” wrote Charles Whiting in 1903, lamenting a springtime snow in New England not so different from the one we endured a few days ago here in Connecticut. Indeed, one could scarcely discern this April vista of Roaring Brook from wintry visions of a January blizzard.
But even Whiting had to concede a certain admiration for the waning wiles of winter. “It was really very beautiful snow, and whether dissipating in the sunshine or shining in the moonlight, it was several degrees whiter than the average. Less meteoric dust in it. Spring snow always looks so very young, and it is a blessing to the new grass and young grain,— one of those blessings that brighten as they take their flight.”
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“Hollenbeck Beck” Hollenbeck River, Canaan, Connecticut
The Hollenbeck River winds lazily through peaceful woodlands clothed in the heavy snow left by a vicious March Nor’easter.
Historians and linguists have debated the origin of the term “Nor’easter” for decades. All can agree that Nor’easters are storms which usually arise during winter and rake the Eastern seaboard with winds gusting from the northeast. But what can be said about the peculiar spelling of this term?
“Nor’easter” may seem, at face value, to be a phonetic spelling of “Northeaster” as it would be spoken with some New England accent. Indeed, the implication is that this spelling is an authentic product of New England society. But it is the omission of ‘r’ sounds that really characterizes coastal accents of Massachusetts, Maine and Rhode Island, so that doesn’t quite add up.
Surprisingly, research suggests that this bizarre spelling predates New England altogether, with “noreast” being found in English texts dating back as far as the late 1500s!
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With spring having arrived just about a week ago, it’s about that time for my on-going Yankee Farmlands project to make the change, as well! Next week’s addition to the series will be the first springtime farmland imagery this year. In the meantime though, I’ve released two final pieces from the very tail-end of winter.
In “Yankee Farmlands № 59” (at top), antique plows rest silently beside an elaborate, round-roof barn in Eastern Connecticut. With winter drawing to a close, the snows have melted away and soft clouds soar through the blue skies overhead.
If you were to briefly glance at this barn and expansive farm while driving by, it might be difficult to tell that it’s no longer an ordinary commercial operation. Roughly 16 years ago, the last of the previous owners donated the 170-acre farm –barns, machinery and all– for use as a unique “farm museum” where visitors can observe a broad range of both historical and modern farming equipment in use.
“Yankee Farmlands № 58” (immediately above) captures one of winter’s final blows to the Connecticut landscape. Tractor tracks impressed in frozen mud guide us past wagons and wrapped hay bales into a snowy expanse of farmland in Western Connecticut.
For all of the advancements in mechanization that have revolutionized farming over the centuries, the typical hay wagon has actually changed very little. After all, they are basically just cargo trailers for hauling hay… there’s only so much room for innovation beyond improving materials. If you could drop farmers from the early-1800s into a modern farm, machines like tractors, disc plows and balers would be completely foreign to them. Hay wagons might be among the few pieces of heavy equipment that they’d recognize fairly easily.
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A jacket of snow-dusted ice clings to shallow boulders along the banks of the Housatonic River in Connecticut’s Northwest Hills. Further upstream, against a backdrop of foggy woodlands and steep hills, a long covered bridge faithfully spans the frigid gorge.
At more than 170 feet in length, the West Cornwall Covered Bridge is arguably the most impressive bridge of its type left in Connecticut. Given the cost of maintenance and increasingly heavier loads it was forced to endure since the mid-1800s, it’s nothing short of a miracle that the bridge has survived to the present day.
There were low points along the way, of course. In 1945, a tanker truck broke through the bridge floor and crashed into the river below. A couple decades later in the late 60s, state officials contemplated tearing it down, but were met with vehement opposition from the surrounding community. Instead, it was reinforced with carefully-hidden steel underpinnings, ensuring the bridge would stick around for several more generations to come. The project was a marvelous success, even earning Connecticut an award from the Federal Highway Administration for exemplary historic preservation.
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Winter snows descend upon the farmlands of Northern Connecticut, blanketing hay wagons and a time-worn pasture shelter. Bare shade trees dot the landscape beyond, eventually giving way to the hazy silhouette of distant woodlands.
At first glance, snow-laden farms may seem rather dormant: tractors sit parked, fields lay barren and barns slumber away the winter. But historically, tireless New Englanders found ways to keep busy on the farm even during the colder months of the year.
With no fields to tend, farmers set off into their woodlots to fell trees which would eventually be used in the springtime to build and repair barns, fences and sheds. Seems like a terrible time for such strenuous outdoor labor, right? Maybe so, but there was an important advantage to this approach: it was far easier to haul heavy timber back to the farm on a sled over the snow than it would be to overload the frame and wheels of a creaky, old wooden cart in the summertime.
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Cast from the lustrous, hazy sky above, sunlight floods a frigid, snow-laden field in the Connecticut River Valley and throws long shadows from the stubble of last season’s corn stalks.
Although modern-day Enfield lies in the northernmost reaches of Connecticut on the east side of the Connecticut River, that wasn’t always the case. An early survey conducted in 1642, just as colonists were beginning to gain a foothold in New England, determined that Enfield was part of the neighboring Massachusetts Colony.
More than five decades later in 1695, a new survey determined that the old boundary between Massachusetts and Connecticut was entirely incorrect. Enfield and a handful of other towns, which had been part of Massachusetts for two generations, were actually part of Connecticut! Things moved slowly in those early days, though: it would take another 50 years before Enfield managed to officially secede from Massachusetts and join the Connecticut Colony in 1750.
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Clouds glow like airy jewels in the early morning as they drift over a dormant farm on the outskirts of Bristol. Down below, light snow clings to a dirt access road which winds past hay bales and a bare shade tree before vanishing behind the barn.
The last installment of Yankee Farmlands brought us to Colebrook, a rural town which was largely reclaimed by sprawling woodlands as farming declined throughout the 1800s and 1900s. Bristol represents the opposite case: as old farmland there was abandoned, it was rapidly repurposed for city expansion and residences. So while Colebrook and Bristol encompass roughly the same amount of land, the population of Bristol has swelled to be about 40 times greater!
Remarkably, a handful of farms have endured on the periphery of the city and manage to feel a world apart from the nearby suburbs and the bustling streets less than two miles to the south.
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With the recent weather here in Southern New England mercifully cooling, it seems timely to remind everyone to enjoy what’s left of the summer. If there’s a lingering shred of superstition in your bones, you’ll take heed that the Farmer’s Alamanac calls for “copious amounts of snow” during the coming winter with the “coldest outbreak of the season” predicted for late January.
I produced the piece seen here along the wintry banks of the Housatonic during the final week of January earlier this year. The riverscape that morning lent a certain presence to nature’s penchant for paradox; awakening with splendor, yet still so very dormant… at once, both enchanting and foreboding. “Schaghticoke Rising” (above) was my effort at capturing that bewildering contradiction as it unfolded in the minutes before dawn.
For the curious minds out there, the title of this piece hearkens back to the earliest days of Kent when the remnants of declining native tribes across Connecticut took refuge from encroaching Europeans in the rough, wooded hills of the township. Calling themselves the Schaghticoke (usually pronounced Scat-uh-cook), this amalgam of native peoples became one of the largest indigenous nations in Southern New England. They were also granted one of the earliest reservations ever created in the New World, obtaining some 2,500 acres from the Connecticut Colony in 1736.
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“I saw, as for the first time, what a severe yet master artist Winter is. Ah, a severe artist! How stern the woods look, dark and cold and as rigid against the horizon as iron!”
-John Burroughs
“The Snow-Walkers” (1866)
What better way to kick off the New Year than celebrating the quietly beautiful snowscapes that are a hallmark of wintertime in New England? My new piece, Mad River Lullaby, was produced only a few weeks ago and portrays a broad bend on the Mad River as it snakes through snowy woodlands just down the road from my home in Wolcott, Connecticut.
The Mad River is impounded downstream of this vista to create the 120-acre Scovill Reservoir, so the serpentine meander featured in Mad River Lullaby is typically inundated. In this rare instance, however, the reservoir had been drawn down several feet, allowing the Mad River to briefly reclaim its more natural footprint. Freshly-fallen snow, courtesy of a December storm, delicately frosted the bare trees and “tidied up” the muddy cobble left behind as the reservoir receded.
Throughout 2013, I managed to travel all over Connecticut and Western Massachusetts and even enjoyed a couple jaunts into Vermont and Eastern New York. Nature was not so shy during many of these travels, presenting several opportunities to capture rare and intimate glimpses of her beauty wherever I set off into the landscape. But, as nature photographer Moose Peterson once said,” The real prize is what you bring home in your heart, not on your memory card.” Indeed, when I browse through my work from this past year, I recall countless fulfilling days of being out in the wilds. Those experiences… those memories… are the reason that I love this art form so deeply.
To all of my viewers, I wish you and yours a bountiful and memorable new year in 2014!
