Leaving the truck in a grass lot among power station consultants’ cars, my dad and I backpacked up the Mattabesett trail from the Connecticut River. The first mile was probably the twistiest, criss-crossiest stretch of trail I’ve ever been on. Intersections or merges with dirt bike troughs and rutty mud roads, and light blue blazes exactly the color of lichen growing on trees- I went the wrong way a bunch of times. It became more peaceful after a little while though, and for most of our 4 days the hiking alternated quickly from tunnels of mountain laurel to oaky and beechy swampiness to short bursts of clambering up or down rocky mounds.
The rocks along much of the trail have spectacular, well, at least cool, big books of mica. Giganormous chunks of quartz and feldspar, too, but those aren’t as shiny or as fun to tear apart. Dad was curious about the geology of the area, but I could only give him vague answers. Welp, I searched for 3 minutes on Wikipedia, but I don't know why the large crystals. There's even a series of bald rock outcrops named The Mica Ledges, though they didn’t have as much of the mineral as elsewhere. I think someone felt the need to pay homage to the muscovite but the ledges were the only prominent things without a name.
None of the ledges gave good shelter, so we got rained on the first night and poured on the second, and all three nights we were treated to shockingly close firework bangs. Before rain made me close my fly on the second night, I could see fireworks through the trees. I turned off the Turkish lessons for a bit to listen to the zheeming of the rockets, and then again to viciously ward away an intrusive demanding mosquito. The low damp areas had an infuriating number of mosquitoes on the third day, enough so that it was worth sweltering through July humid heat in a long-sleeve shirt and a bandana around my neck to cut the bites in half. That night, I laid down to sleep evily glad to listen to the seven sweetly singing mosquitoes repeatedly nudging up against the screen of my tent.
We hiked hard and every few hours would plop down for Dad to doze on any flattish surface and for me to look at things and read and admire the stench coming from my socks. I don’t know why the smell’s impressive every time, but, it is. And every once in a while, I’d get a scent of honeysuckle, a nice mix with the feet. Really though, the area’s pretty- especially with misty views of treetops and the wet colorfulness of tree trunks and lichen and rocks. Many a deer to wake you with its snorting at night, as well. Okee doke, sick of writing, adios!
