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.

Walk With A View In Mind

Sunday seemed to miss the feel of Spring somehow. It was dull and sleepy, probably because of the lost hour. But a Sunday stroll, long or short, has become an order of the day in this house for the wife and I. And of course she does the pickin', however weird that may be. This time she defied the weather by searching for a view. And a view means back in the mountain goat routine.

This time it was Drumlin Road in Pigeon Cove. Before we ran out of that stock of breath, we found why folks have built on the side of this hill. Our valley dwelling took on the atmosphere of a hole in the ground.

Just above the growing ruins of the staunch stone barn, we came upon what could pass for a quiet small lake to one side of the road. It is another rain-filled abandoned quarry pit that Molly fell in love with right away. The old gal was cute. She four-legged it out a few feet until she sensed there was nothing but space one step ahead. The boxer didn't mind a bit of a dousing but hardly a full bath. Back she came to us to shower the Sunday suit with her shaking.

Up ahead of us bearing the mien of post-card scenes of the terraced dwellings of Italy, was a sweep of comparatively new homes of the "close to earth" style pioneered by the late famed architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. What a change from the last time we hit that trail a score of years ago. Odd as they look to a conventional home owner, there's appeal to the way they hug the ground, and stay on the first floor.

It wasn't only the pipe we were puffing on that climb. Anybody that admits to the half century mark would be puffing like ol' Peppersass of Mount Washington's cog railroad. Bu every huff brough us nearer to that view we were after.

We envied these folks who awake to scan a panorama second to none on the Cape. Smokey as the day was, dropping a filmy curtain on the horizon, the eye swept around from Sandy Bay Breakwater over to the Great Hill water standpipe. And nearer to us could be seen swirling in the sky, thousands of white wings, gulls who were enjoying the lake-like quarry pits including the town's reserve water supply.

The gulls were much too high to bother Molly, the distant view fell dead upon her. Only the near-at-hand is her world and by this time, that came in the form of three chummy dogs, one a itty-bitty fellah, the others, twins of a handsome variety. Their home is the hill-top. We breathed a sigh of relief. All four made friends in a matter of seconds and scampered all over the lot. 'Tis nice to know that Mollie was a lady.

One fine home that might have been called "Last Breath" because it sure took ours to reach it, even sported a greenhouse attached to it. The RFD mail box that must get its deposits by whirleybird had the name of Wentworth on it. Furthermore, it was the only home along the way where there was a sign of folks busy on the grounds. But every property looked spic and span.

Coming onto Landmark Lane we continued the short distance to the Pigeon Cove standpipe to guess at some of the myriads of carved initial combinations noting that love had passed this way more often than elsewhere. We never were the initial carving type. We did recall how our younger used to enjoy pelting this standpipe to hear the pings and pongs.

It was good to see that someone has installed benches in a field just below the standpipe, for they provide seats for those who want to view the compact village below them emphaszed by the tool company's chimney and the Hotel Edwards with its shelves of granite lining the shore. Of course, summer adds the appeal of the yacht races. A grandstand seat free for the climbing. Spring may have escaped the air, but it can never escape that hill and its command of the Rockport scene. Try it sometime. Great for the varicose veins!

J.P.C., Jr.