A Walk into 6,000 Years

It was a roundabout walk that the wife and I and our four-footer took last Sunday in Rockport. We ended up in the dim-dim past, muct too dim even for us. The day was perfect though gray overhead, not so good underfoot, as we headed in the buzz-wagon for the neighborhood of Thacher Road. There we walked where the wife has planned to go for a long time, into the new colony of homes.

Ridgewood Road, they called the first one leading off Thacher Road. The wife recalled that hardly more than a dozen years ago, the area was just plain unbroken woods. Before us were at least 20 bright looking homes with cars parked outside and many other signs of folks living there. Rockport has moved out in still another direction.

In the distance could be heard the dismal boom of the fog horn as if we didn't know that winter was still with us, what with the forever falling white flakes. Even the sheer white birches looked winterish amid a background of laurel.

For our lady boxer, it was a new world to conquer. My heart was in my mouth for fear we would meet up with all manner of wild-eyed canines resenting her intrusion into their province. I was walking as I thought on eggs but instead found it was just sheer thick mud.

As it happened only one woofer sounded off and the pride and joy of our family kept up her reputation of being a snob and paid not the slightest bit of attention. Apparently the homer was more than eager to share her realm with others, big or small for he (or was it she?) let it go with a bark.

The sight of lobster pots piled high in a yard gave us notice that this new colony was still Rockport at heart just as did the clear musical sound of a brook in the distance. This the wife recalled from a walk up through there 12 years ago with her den of Cub Scouts. Sure enough, going beyond the settlement, and down a yellow muddy slope we came upon the spirited tumbler on its way from Cape Pond to the ocean. Winter or no, that brook is still glorious to behold. It was worth the trouble. This was Rogers' Ramblers' terrain, and we could just picture him and his scrambling into it, over snow-spilled rocks and tripping vines. The wife remembered a quaint low wooden footbridge that once spanned this pond. It had probably gone the way of civilization. But no one is going to halt that brook, it would seem.

Scars of time were seen farther into these woods as we noted heaps of junked car bodies and also of gravel pits in the making. Ah me, progress is progress, we suppose, but we can take just so much before we choke up and would prefer reversing the picture.

At this point, the wife espied bright red checkerberries amid their green leaves, and promptly ate a berry much to the annoyance of her husband who never takes chances on woodland offerings, though the day may come when he will have to.

As for Molly, her nosy ferreting in the brush showed us where pussy willows had again come to life. That's a sign of something or other, but if it is of Spring then we know that in this Spring at least, all signs fail. However our 60-pounder wasn't concerned about human signs, for her concern in that excited pawing was without doubt a fox scent.

Once more we came onto Thacher Road, where the view of the ocean was fabulous, sparkled by a ridge of lobster pots along the edge of the beach. Continuing on, we came to the beach of Henry's Pond to see what the wife had viewed a few days earlier. It was the yellowed bole of a tree that had emerged from the sands at low tide these past few days and on which by laboratory tests, Harvard had stamped an age. That age was why the wife and I claim to have walked into 6,000 years. Scientists had said it was that old. But the tides were agin us and the sight denied us. It was a good walk just the same. And what does Molly care about the days before man walked in volume.

J.P.C., Jr.

Walk to Whale Cove and Henry's Pond

Remember the time in Rockport when you could walk the length and breadth of the shore from the Headlands to Land's End without committing the crime of trespassing? Well, the wife and I recall such a day in the past. And we are minded that it was the shore path followed by the Coast Guardsmen at Straitsmouth Lifeboat Station when they nightly patroled the waterfront through winter wind and snow.

So on perhaps the finest October Sunday in years, weather-wise, the three of us, Molly, the spayed female boxer, the "missus" and myself decided to try to find a stretch of that path. And in the bargain we'd take a peep at the Whale Cove development.

We cheated a bit by riding as far as that spot on South Street where a sign to the left, decorated by an impressive black whale, read "The Smiths." It marked the home of Mrs. J. Raymond Smith and her son, Ray. Close by was another whale-decorated sign, reading: Whale Cove Lane, dead end, pass at your own risk." The daredevils in us took over as we chose to risk whatever was ahead. The Wife spoke of a flourishing brook that ran down alongside this lane.

The brook, however, had disappeared! Molly nosed out that fact, as she snooped along the bracken that had grown over the gully. As ancient as the brook that was, appeared drooping willows. In a neighboring pasture that swept down to the sea, a lone cow was blatting a mile a minute, maybe trying to attract the boxer's attention. But Molly is no cow dog, and though she looked, she must have decided against chancing the hooves of a something a lot bigger than she is.

Off to the starboard was a scene of the present. Modern homes, low and with long slightly sloping roof, are in such numbers to almost make up a village of its own, "Whale Cove Village."

Reaching the shoreline, we thought we might meander right to Land's End. We were advised by one of the neighbors that we could go a short distance, but through growth of high brush, and then by walking through somebody's backyard to get onto another lane that led back to South Street. That shore line walk amounted to no more than a couple of hundred feet. In the other direction, a public path is just as absent.

The view was the best. A couple miles offshore, what looked like a nautical hen with her brood following behind was apparently a fishing dragger towing a string of eight engine-less lobster boats down the coast. They tell us that hulls are bought this way and engines installed aat the home port. Something about the law somewhere. But it was no day to be listening to law.

Back to the car and a bit more walk-gypping as we decided to hit for the beach so the four-footer could have a real run The strand in front of Henry's Pond in South End, struck our fancy. The way that Molly ran from one end of the beach to the other and through the roaring surf, it seemed as if she had whippet blood, though they (who gave her to us) insist she has a pedigree.

The beach was far from deserted. At least four skindivers showed up. One of them said he was interested in collecting shells, that he had a big collection from the Hawaiian sea bottom, where he had done a great deal of diving. Even a charming swimmer appeared in a summery blue bathing suit. And she actually swam, though the water felt to our bare feet to be at the zero level.

We couldn't help but think what an enviable chance the town once had for a boulevard from the Headlands to Land's End! The path was there, and nobody ever figured the time would come when it would be lost to the public.

Anyway, it was a joyous day for strolling and as good a one for sunning on the beach It was Rockport at its best.

J.P.C., Jr.