A Walk into Space - Pigeon Hill

For years we used to look upon Pigeon Cove as a faint pinpoint on the map into which folks crawled to hide from a world that had disowned them. But since the wife has included the Cove in the Sunday walk schedule into which she lures us and our frivolous four-footer, we have learned the error of our ways. We never realized there was so much heaven on earth as in that tight little neck of granite.

As we bounced around last Sunday in the fast failin' flivver and opened the sealed orders presented by the motor helmsman, we again read that the destination on this between-the-showers stroll was none other than the North Village. In fact, the stopping point was on Pigeon Hill Court where not one but four animated canines came rushing forth from all corners to challenge our bristling boxer.

Rather than let Molly leave behind us a path of strewn bodies, out hustled the leash. For some peculiar reason, there's no challenge to any dog, pedigreed or just alley-born, to one of their kind throttled by a chain. That deterrent just fizzled it into a sniffing bout. So up the paved court we sallied and into a backwoods path alongside the Carl and Eva Johnson well manicured estate.

Yup, you guessed it, the good missus had again decided we needed a bit of alpining just to test our hardening arteries. Ever since our courting days, our frau has persisted in trying to make an athlete out of this flabby form much to our disgust, not to mention our fear of heights any greater than three feet from solid earth.

But orders are orders so up the steep grade we mushroomed, planting down with emphasis one foot after the other to escape sprawling ground-ward. Talk about a seeing-eye dog, that Molly of ours served nobly as a walking-eye dog for this venerable even though the chief reason for her being restrained was so she wouldn't make a dash for Eva's fond tabby who we saw spitting 25 yards away, back arched, ready for combat.

Apple trees were all in bloom, heralders of summer at last, and reminiscent of the miles upon miles of such apple orchards, fields of white purity we had seen a week ago on a drive to South Hadley. We were on the way to the town's standpipe at the top of Pigeon Hill on a road opened up by our water department two years ago through virgin woods. It was the third stout hill we had climbed in as many weeks . To the wife we laid down the law that the next stroll must be on the level in more ways than one. We must think of our sunken arches, no less.

Kitty clear, we unloosed the 65-pounder only to suddenly note she was pawing the sod by the side of the road. That puzzled us until we drew closer only to see that our young lady had come upon her first snake, at least a three-footer, that was doing a rapid shimmy in an effort to slither elsewhere from under the paw that held her captive. Snaky managed, amid yappings by Molly, who stumbled bewildered as she realized her weird prisoner was no longer with her. It couldn't have been a rattler, because the old gal is still enjoying her horse meat in great gulps.

Then we emerged onto exciting Landmark Lane, the very top, where it gives you the feeling of having arrived in space what with the panorama of Rockport and the Cove and the ever thrilling Atlantic spread below you, with the multi-colored late Spring verdure of the woodlands, the thick patches of strawberry blossoms, of blueberry buds on the high bush, of the awakening shad bushes and the exciting array of deep blue violets along the roadway.

We felt rewarded for having been mountain climbers once again as we saw patches of white sails and a slim granite line known as Sandy Bay breakwater, and imagined other New England shores beyond the haze.

As we retraced our steps and got home before the next shower, we could only be thankful in having enjoyed another short Sunday stroll in a village that offers so many delightful walks. We wish you had been with us.

J.P.C., JR.