Cohasset’s Wheelwright Park

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Consider your routines. On the roads you travel with some regularity, are there places you’ve always intended to stop, but never have? Do you pass signs for parks and conservation lands, little dirt parking areas that give no indication as to what might be down the paths leading away from them? The South Shore is home to many places such as these. Some small, some large – all offer a worthwhile diversion.

Years ago I had a part-time job in Cohasset Village. If I happened to be heading north after work, I almost always left town via Main Street, where I would pass, but never stop at, Wheelwright Park. The large wooden sign over the entrance indicated that the site had some significance, but somehow I never got around to exploring it.

I’m making an effort lately to visit conservation areas like these – parcels I pass while riding my bike, or at night, or when I’m heading someplace else. Now I’m going back – on purpose, during the day, when I have time to see what there is to see.

Wheelwright Park in Cohasset is the gateway to a set of interconnected open space areas. The parking lot, at the end of a gravel drive, offers immediate access to the park itself, as well as the Barnes Wildlife Sanctuary. There is also a Boy Scout campground within hiking distance, a skating pond, a picnic area, and the large and diverse parcel known as the Cornelia & Richardson White Woods, which is part of Holly Hill Farm. Some of the trails, originally put in place by the WPA, date back to 1935.

Altogether the parcels comprise more than 200 acres of open space – a little bit of meadow, but mostly pine and oak woods, along with groves of holly. I visited recently with a friend and her dogs, on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Leashes are required in the parking lot, but otherwise, dogs are permitted to run free, as long as they are kept under control. Trooper and Little Foot enjoyed our visit immensely. We encountered a number of other dogs on our route, most off-leash.

First we followed the main trail, a wide cart path that winds its way to the second entrance, at Forest Avenue. Along the way were occasional giant boulders – glacial erratics – large enough to make me stop and think about how they got there. The boulders, which have been in place far longer than any manmade structure, remind me that great sheets of ice once covered the land. It was the receding of these glaciers that carved our present landscape -- the hills and valleys, the riverbeds and ponds. The glaciers also dropped the occasional boulder . . . thus in Wheelwright and its environs you’ll find such behemoths as Big Tippling Rock, Little Tippling Rock, Split Rock, and the Devil’s Chair.

The cart path traverses hilly terrain – not too steep, but enough to get one’s heart pumping. There are also assorted, narrower trails that lead off in either direction. After following the main trail all the way to Forest Avenue, we backtracked to the signs that marked the entrance to White Woods. I wished we’d brought a map – there were so many options! Instead we followed our instincts and enjoyed several additional, well-marked trails, some that traversed small streams.

Like most nature parcels, Wheelwright Park is open from dawn to dusk, year-round. There is no charge for admission. Look for the entrance off North Main Street in Cohasset. Dogs and horses are welcome.

by Kezia Bacon, November 2012

Kezia Bacon's articles appear courtesy of the North and South Rivers Watershed Association, a local non-profit organization devoted to the preservation, restoration, maintenance and conservation of the North and South Rivers and their watershed. For membership information and a copy of their latest newsletter, contact NSRWA at (781) 659-8168 or visit www.nsrwa.org. To browse 15 years of Nature (Human and Otherwise) columns, visit http://keziabaconbernstein.blogspot.com

Whitney and Thayer Woods

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Ode's Den at Whitney and Thayer Woods, Cohasset

Thanks to The Trustees of Reservations (TTOR), Cohasset and Hingham boast some of the largest and most interesting open space areas on the South Shore. World’s End is spectacular – I’ve written about it here before. Weir River Farm, another gem, has also been featured in this column. But until now, I’ve never quite gotten around to exploring another large and notable parcel, Whitney and Thayer Woods, which straddles the Cohasset-Hingham line.

Comprising 824 acres, Whitney and Thayer Woods offers ten miles of walking trails. That’s a lot! Many of these trails are old carriage roads – wide, clear, and well-trod. It’s a little overwhelming to have so many choices when planning one’s route, which is part of the reason it took me so long to begin my explorations. In fact, when I finally did go there, I asked a friend, who knew the property well, to show me around.

Whitney and Thayer Woods is accessible from three places. The southern entrance is on Route 3A in Cohasset, across from the Stop & Shop plaza. The good-sized (20 cars) parking lot connects with two trails, which in turn branch out into three more. From there, there are a number of small and large circuit trails, providing plenty of variety, and possibly some confusion. Be sure to take a map from the kiosk at the entrance. All intersections are numbered and marked for ease of navigation.

Some highlights from the south entrance include: the very large Bigelow Boulder, left behind by a glacier, now a striking sight in the middle of the woods. Also Ode’s Den, a large grouping of rocks named after a man who lived among them after he lost his home in 1830. The American Holly Grove, although quite a walk, is worth exploring too, as is the Milliken Memorial Path, which is lined with shrubs such as rhododendron and azalea – truly a sight to behold if you catch it while the flowers are in bloom.

The second entrance to the property is also on Route 3A, but in Hingham this time, at the foot of Turkey Hill. From the 8-car parking lot, one trail leads up the hill, and another heads down toward the middle of the property, where there is access to several additional trails.

The third entrance is at the very end of Hingham’s Turkey Hill Lane, just past Weir River Farm, and atop Turkey Hill. The lot will hold only 5 cars, but additional parking can be found if you backtrack downhill to Weir River. The hill itself is managed by The Trustees of Reservations, as well as both towns. It is comprised of 62 acres, primarily meadow, an ideal environment for grassland birds. At 187-foot elevation, it offers quite a view. One curiosity on the hilltop is a cinderblock building with a rich history – it was once part of a Cold War-era anti-missile radar control station.

As you head over the hill and down into the woods, again, you will find access to a number of walking trails. These forests used to be farmland, so the hardwoods growing there now are relatively recent. It’s not uncommon to see vestiges of old stone walls amidst the trees. Many, but not all of the trails within Whitney and Thayer Woods permit mountain biking and horseback riding.

In more recent history, after the decline of agriculture in this area but before the arrival of the subdivision, much of the Whitney and Thayer Woods was dedicated to equestrian pursuits. Henry Whitney purchased some of the former-farms and created the bridle paths and carriage roads that are still in existence today. It’s easy to imagine a horse-drawn buggy making its way along some of the wider trails. The Whitney Woods Association, a horseback-riding group, eventually took ownership of 600 acres. In 1933 this was donated to TTOR, as was – a decade later -- additional acreage to the west, owned by the Thayer family. Land acquisition from various sources continued as late as 1999.

Whitney and Thayer Woods, as well as Turkey Hill and Weir River Farm, all are open daily, from sunrise to sunset. Parking and admission to walking trails is free to everyone. Learn more at www.thetrustees.org.

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent

October 2012

Kezia Bacon's articles appear courtesy of the North and South Rivers Watershed Association, a local non-profit organization devoted to the preservation, restoration, maintenance and conservation of the North and South Rivers and their watershed. For membership information and a copy of their latest newsletter, contact NSRWA at (781) 659-8168 or visit www.nsrwa.org. To browse 15 years of Nature (Human and Otherwise) columns, visit http://keziabaconbernstein.blogspot.com

This Year’s Fall Festivals

Enjoying the pumpkin patch at Weir River Farm.

Autumn is just around the corner. The days are growing shorter, the nights are getting longer, and soon we will feel a chill in the air. The first day of fall is Saturday, September 22. September 18th brings the full moon know as the Corn Moon, followed by October 17’s Harvest Moon.

The onset of fall is a traditional time to celebrate the harvest and acknowledge the change of seasons. Between now and Halloween there are a number of local fests and feasts, offering all sorts of activities for young and old. Think: hay rides, corn mazes, visits to the pumpkin patch, plus lots of locally grown food and freshly pressed apple cider. Read on, and mark your calendar!

Historic O’Neil Farm Day – Saturday, September 15, from 11-3 (rain date: 9/16). Visit the historic property and continue the Duxbury 375 celebration with food and festivities including music from The BogStompers, a meet and greet with the O'Neil dairy calves, informal tours of the barnyard, and fun activities and games for the kids. Parking will be available at the Autumn Ave. entrance, with access to the barnyard via the Avery Walking trail or a hayride.

36^th Annual Corn Festival: Saturday and Sunday, September 22 and 23, from 10-4 at the South Shore Natural Science Center, Jacobs Lane, Norwell. This family-friendly event features children’s games, a crafters’ village, hayrides, farm animals, live music, animal demonstrations and plenty of refreshments for sale, including the Kernel’s Kitchen famous corn chowder. Call 781-659-2559 or visit www.ssnsc.org for details.

Harvest Moon Feast: Monday, September 24 from 6-9 pm at Mill Wharf Restaurant, Scituate Harbor. Support the North and South Rivers Watershed Association while sampling dishes prepared by favorite local restaurants, caterers and purveyors of fresh food. This benefit event includes live jazz by the Lance Van Lenten Trio, beer and wine tastings, and a cash bar. Call 781-659-8168 or visit www.nrswa.org for details.

2^nd Annual South Shore Celebration – Saturday, October 6, 10-4:30 at the Marshfield Fairgrounds. This event celebrates the fall harvest, local foods and sustainable living. There will be plenty of good food, plus over 75 local gourmet and green vendors, a seafood throwdown, an electronics recycle station, a field to fork dinner, live music and entertainment featuring Melodeego, workshops on sustainable living and local food, a kids corner, and a live broadcast from 95.9 WATD. For details, visit www.southshorecelebration.com.

9th Annual Cranberry Harvest Celebration – Saturday and Sunday, October 6 & 7 from 10-4. Hosted by the A.D. Makepeace Company and the Cape Cod Cranberry Growers’ Association, this fun family event features juried crafters, activities for children, animal shows, cooking demonstrations, food vendors, helicopter and pony rides, and much more. Plus up-close views of a working cranberry bog at harvest time. Location: 158 Tihonet Road, Wareham. Call 508-322-4000 or visit www.cranberries.org/festival for details.

Bog Hollow Farm’s Annual Pumpkin Patch Weekend – Saturday through Monday, October 6-8 (rain date: 10/13-14) from 10-4. Located at 80 Wapping Road, Kingston, this farm has a lot to offer during harvest season. Take a ride in the hay wagon to the pumpkin patch where you can search for your perfect pumpkin. Or get lost in the maze, have fun in the hay jump, visit the animals, or just relax and enjoy the beauty. Purchase fresh cranberries, check out the farm equipment on display, dress up as a fireman and take your picture on an antique fire truck -- plus Ellie & Vinny’s famous hot dogs. Call 781-585-8414 or visit www.boghollowfarm.com for details.

Plimoth Plantation's 6th Annual Harvest Festival – Saturday through Monday, October 6-8, from 10:30-4:30 at Plimoth Plantation, 137 Warren Ave. Plymouth. Join the Wampanoag Indigenous Program for a day of fun-filled activities to celebrate the vegetable harvest. Join the native people for 17^th century-style singing, dancing, games and feasting, and learn about their harvest and culture. Call 508-746-1622 or visit www.plimoth.org for details.

Harvest Dinner with the Pilgrims – Saturday, October 6 at 5:30pm at Plimoth Plantation, 137 Warren Ave. Plymouth. Sit down to a “groaning board” filled with the finest food that the season has to offer in the savory journey into the past. Your Pilgrim hosts – residents of 1627 Plimoth – will share tales of England, and sing psalms and songs. Discover the table manners and recipes that traveled across the Atlantic with the Pilgrims and find out what happened at the famous harvest celebration of 1621. Call 508-746-1622 or visit www.plimoth.org for details.

Weir River Farm Fall Festival – Saturday, October 13th from 10-2 at Weir River Farm, Turkey Hill Lane, Hingham. Sponsored by the Trustees of Reservations, this annual fall festival celebrates the bounty of another successful farm season with live music by the Jackson Wetherbee band, pumpkins to paint and other kids crafts, pony rides, touch a tractor, and more. Meet the Belted Galloway cattle, Tamworth pigs, Icelandic sheep, Buff Orpington chickens and ponies. Call 781-740-7233 or visit www.thetrustees.org/places-to-visit/greater-boston/weir-river-farm.html for details.

Mass Audubon’s Farm Day – Saturday, October 20, 10-4 at Daniel Webster Wildlife Sanctuary, Winslow Cemetery Road, Marshfield. Mass Audubon’s annual event for families features hayrides, owl demonstrations, live music, a fine arts and crafts show, children’s games and crafts, face painting, a giant hay maze, home-baked treats and other delicious food. Call 781-837-9400 or email southshore@massaudubon.org for details.

Halloween Howl – Saturday, October 27, 5:30-8:30pm at the South Shore Natural Science Center, Jacobs Lane, Norwell. A not-too-scary night of family fun ($6 members/$8 non-members for each child, accompanied by an adult). Activities include a pumpkin carving station, seasonal-themed children’s activities, and a walk through the “Spooky Woods” and decorated EcoZone museum. Wear a costume if you like and bring a pumpkin to carve. Call 781-659-2559 or visit www.ssnsc.org for details.

by Kezia Bacon
August 2012

Kezia Bacon's articles appear courtesy of the North and South Rivers Watershed Association, a local non-profit organization devoted to the preservation, restoration, maintenance and conservation of the North and South Rivers and their watershed. For membership information and a copy of their latest newsletter, contact NSRWA at (781) 659-8168 or visit www.nsrwa.org. To browse 15 years of Nature (Human and Otherwise) columns, visit http://keziabaconbernstein.blogspot.com

The Rockland Town Forest

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To the uninitiated, the Rockland Town Forest may seem ordinary. It’s a small parcel of land (39.5 acres) with an unassuming wooden sign, accessible from North Avenue. From the parking area – ample, unpaved – you would think you were about to take an unremarkable walk in the woods. But this small network of trails is actually quite special.

The parcel sometimes goes by the name of the George Anderson Forest, in honor of the chairman of the Rockland Town Forest Committee, who is very active in developing, maintaining and improving the trails, and otherwise keeping the property in top shape. The trails are narrow but well-kept; many are lined with stones, and one leads through a tunnel-like forest of yew trees.

With the help of a team of volunteers, Anderson has constructed a series of wooden bridges and walkways that make it possible to explore the watery portions of the parcel. The structures enable walkers to traverse French’s Stream and the wetlands that surround it, in numerous places. The effect is quite enchanting, especially in spring and summer when the trees and shrubs are in full leaf-out and the forest is a wonderland of green.

Anderson and his team have done more subtle work too – curious stacks of rocks and stones, the occasional windchime . . . even a cleverly-placed gnome. Out there in the woods, it’s easy to forget that you’re in the middle of a bustling suburb. This is a great place to bring the children – the trails aren’t challenging, or long, and the little treasures you might find along the way add an air of whimsy.

There is not much open space in Rockland – a few small conservation parcels, two country clubs, a park. The town very wisely chose to set aside the Town Forest for flood protection. When there is heavy wet weather, downstream portions of French’s Stream can overflow. Having some “room to grow,” in the town forest, is a good safety measure.

The Rockland Town Forest was first dedicated as conservation/flood protection land in 1984. A total of 19.8 acres were given to the town for this purpose. Over time, four additional pieces of land were added to it. The second was taken for tax title in 1999, and then in 2004, the National Parks Service gave 2.33 acres adjacent to the former South Weymouth Naval Air Station, on the south side of Spruce Street. In 2005 an 8-acre parcel was donated to the town by the developer of nearby Salem Estates. This piece connected to some conservation land already in the town’s possession, bringing the parcel’s total acreage to 39.5.

The trails around the stream and through the wetlands are for walking and hiking only, but the wider fire lane and access road are open to mountain bikes as well. Visitors are asked not to pick any of the plants. While most are not rare or endangered, there are a few that are uncommon within Rockland itself. Leaving them be helps to preserve them.

If you’re interested in a guided walk through the parcel, check the information board in the parking area. Anderson often leads tours himself; postings of upcoming tours can be found on that board.

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent

July 2012

Kezia Bacon's articles appear courtesy of the North and South Rivers Watershed Association, a local non-profit organization devoted to the preservation, restoration, maintenance and conservation of the North and South Rivers and their watershed. For membership information and a copy of their latest newsletter, contact NSRWA at (781) 659-8168 or visit www.nsrwa.org. To browse 15 years of Nature (Human and Otherwise) columns, visit http://keziabaconbernstein.blogspot.com

Stand Up Paddle Boarding

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 A few years ago, I was standing on the deck of the boathouse at the Norris Reservation in Norwell, gazing at the water. I saw a lone figure approaching from upstream, but I couldn’t quite determine what it was -- too quiet for a boat, too tall for a kayak or canoe. As the figure approached, and I was able to see more clearly, I realized it was a man, standing on what looked like an oversized surfboard, paddling his way down the North River.

At the time, I figured this was just an instance of an Odd Activity Someone Invented. I didn’t know yet that Stand Up Paddle Boarding (SUP) was one of the latest trends for people who enjoy the water. I was intrigued.

For years the North and South Rivers Watershed Association has offered an array of guided paddling trips, classes, lectures, walks and other outdoor themed events. Lately the group has been expanding its offerings, and this year Stand Up Paddle Boarding was added to the schedule.

Partnering with Marshfield-based Luminate Surf & Skate, NSRWA offered a series of Stand Up Paddling classes in May and June, on the South River. Local, and run by folks I trusted, this was the perfect opportunity to try something new -- so I signed up.

The class was just before sunset on Memorial Day. We met first at Luminate so those who needed to could be fitted for wetsuits (rental was included in the cost of the program). It was overcast, damp and a bit chilly outside.

We caravanned from there to Rexhame Beach. Luminate had trailered the boards, but it was our job to carry them, and our paddles, through the dunes to the river. Even with the built-in handle, those boards – averaging about ten feet in length -- were awkward and heavy! We placed them at the water’s edge and then received a quick tutorial on how to use them.

When I signed up for the class, I’d looked online at photos of people in their bathing suits, smiling contentedly as they paddled their boards across peaceful waters. But I pictured quite a different scene for myself. It wasn’t bathing suit weather (I wore my sleeveless wetsuit with a long sleeved shirt over it). I imagined it would take some practice before I could even stand on the board, let alone smile. “Contentedly” might have to be saved for a future excursion. I expected to fall, repeatedly. But being a yoga teacher and longtime-but-still-novice kayaker, I had hopes that I would figure it out eventually.

Our guides, Jess and Oliver, instructed us to wade into the water up to our knees, cautioning us about the slippery stones underfoot. They then hopped up onto their boards, kneeling, and pushed off into the river. “Once you find your balance,” they explained, “you can bring one foot forward and stand up.”

I was a little nervous, but not wanting to be left behind, I pushed off after them, wobbling but still dry from the knees up. The board was surprisingly stable, and within a minute or two, I gingerly rose to my feet. Once we were all standing, Oliver and Jess showed us the most effective way to use the paddle. And then we set off, heading upstream.

Are you familiar with the South River? The winding stretch from Rexhame Beach upstream toward Marshfield Center is lovely. Surrounded by marsh on both sides, it offers an expansive view. The evening we were there, the tide was close to high, and the marsh grass was a rich emerald green. There was a mild breeze – just enough to keep the bugs at bay. And the mostly-still water reflected the setting sun. So serene.

Our guides led us upstream for a while, and then we turned into Clapp Creek, which flows in a zigzag pattern from a neighborhood off South River Street. By then our group of nine (a family of four, a couple, the instructors and me) had dispersed enough that each of us could have a solitary experience if we wanted to. We had chatted some while we paddled in a loose pack, but as we headed deeper into the creek, the conversations slowed.

I had to pay attention – maintaining my balance, steering the board along a winding course, making sure the paddle hit the water at the correct angle, avoiding collisions with other participants as well as the riverbanks – but the process was simple enough that I could daydream a bit as well. I’d explored this section of the river plenty of times before, but always down low, at kayak or canoe height. To be standing instead of sitting offered a refreshingly new perspective.

The creek continued to narrow, and eventually we decided to turn around. Heading back toward Rexhame, we let the distance between each paddler grow, each of us in his or her own world. Exiting the creek and heading downstream, I surveyed the scene before me: the sun setting behind Marshfield Hills, a pink-orange glow on the river, the vivid green marshes, the golden hue of the dunes. I’d tried something new, I’d enjoyed myself, and I’d managed to stay warm and dry. I’m pretty sure I was smiling contentedly.

Note: Luminate offers weekly Stand Up Paddle Boarding classes at various South Shore locations. For information, visit http://luminatesurfandskate.com or call 781-834-2755.

by Kezia Bacon

June 2012

Kezia Bacon's articles appear courtesy of the North and South Rivers Watershed Association, a local non-profit organization devoted to the preservation, restoration, maintenance and conservation of the North and South Rivers and their watershed. For membership information and a copy of their latest newsletter, contact NSRWA at (781) 659-8168 or visit www.nsrwa.org. To browse 15 years of Nature (Human and Otherwise) columns, visit http://keziabaconbernstein.blogspot.com

The Toad Trap

photo © Chris Bernstein

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On a warm day in early May, my son and his friend came barreling into the house, all excited because they’d caught a toad. “You really need to come see it, Mom!”

This past year, toad sightings have become a common occurrence around here. At least one toad (perhaps a whole family) makes its home in the rock garden at the base of our driveway. For us, toads are not difficult to find.

But to contain them? That’s another story. One day Abel – very studiously -- constructed a “toad trap” – a precarious assemblage of stacked rocks and small boards that he thought would prevent a toad from hopping away. It didn’t -- but it offered a cool, shady shelter, at least.

Abel is six. One of his favorite things to do is to make “Snake River.” There is a small patch of land between the deck and the rock garden, through which runs the shallow drainage ditch that Abel and my father dug a couple years ago. Abel likes to turn on the hose and let the water run through the ditch. Once there’s enough standing water to play in, he turns it off again.

The “river” is lined on one side with smooth stones, with a healthy swath of violets and pachysandra on the other. Toads seems to find this environment ideal, despite the plastic boats, Star Wars figures and other little-boy detritus that often can be found there. Abel’s toad trap stands on an “island” in the middle of the “river.”

Traps of rocks and wood are one thing, but those contained in buckets are another. When Abel and his friend led me out of the house and down to the banks of Snake River, they very proudly presented a 5-gallon plastic bucket, which they had outfitted with two inches of water, some rocks, and some freshly-picked grass and green leaves.

“He has food, and water, and a place to sit,” they explained. They were beaming.

I sighed inwardly. This wasn’t going to be easy.

The interior of the bucket was indeed a thoughtfully-constructed haven for a small reptile. It was also a death trap.

I looked over at Abel and his friend, so excited to have caught the toad, and so pleased with what they’d done to accommodate their new “pet.”

I looked down at the toad. It appeared to be terrified.

“Guys,” I said. “We need to talk.”

That toad might very well have been strong enough to leap out of the bucket and save himself. But maybe not.

As much as I love the fact that my son has no qualms about catching and holding -- and even playing with -- things like toads, these situations make me think hard about the line between fun and cruelty. It can be so enriching to observe nature, but once we begin to interfere with it, all sorts of ethical questions arise. In any situation, we must consider the other person (or thing) involved.

“We’re going to have to let the toad go,” I explained. “If it stays in this bucket, you will be able to play with it whenever you like, and that would be fun.”

Both of the boys were paying strict attention.

“But this toad probably has a mother and a father, a sister or a brother, or even babies of its own. And if it stays in this bucket, it won’t be able to see its family again.”

Eyes downcast, the boys nodded. They got it. There was no need to say more.

And so we tipped the bucket and set the toad free. It splashed to the middle of Snake River, a little dazed. Pausing for a couple minutes to look around, it then hopped off toward the shelter of the violet patch. I hope it comes back.

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent

May 2012 

Kezia Bacon's articles appear courtesy of the North and South Rivers Watershed Association, a local non-profit organization devoted to the preservation, restoration, maintenance and conservation of the North and South Rivers and their watershed. For membership information and a copy of their latest newsletter, contact NSRWA at (781) 659-8168 or visit www.nsrwa.org. To browse 15 years of Nature (Human and Otherwise) columns, visit http://keziabaconbernstein.blogspot.com

Driving on Duxbury Beach

The access road to Duxbury Beach.

Oversand vehicle permits for Duxbury Beach became available recently, prompting a flurry of conversation about who would get one this season, and how they planned to enjoy this privilege. And for me, it raised – once again – a dilemma about driving on the beach in the first place.

Before I had a child of my own, the notion of driving onto Duxbury Beach was irrelevant. I could park and walk to my own beaches in Marshfield, toting a chair, a book, and a bottle of water. I didn’t require much to enjoy the beach and I didn’t need to get there, or home, in a hurry. Adding a young child to the mix – and his truck, pail, shovel, snack, drink, sunscreen, towel and diaper changing paraphernalia – complicated matters. I still went, because my son loved it, but I grumbled about hauling out stuff over the tall dune at Rexhame or up the road from Green Harbor’s public parking lot.

Over time, the beach became less of a draw for us. But there were rare occasions when a friend with an oversand permit -- as well as a vehicle large enough to accommodate us -- would invite us to Duxbury Beach, and we soon learned what an appealing alternative this was! Pack up the car, drive directly onto the beach, park, and enjoy. It was quick and convenient . . . but for me, the nature writer, it was also guilt-inducing. Was it really okay for us to be driving on the beach?

An understanding of beach mechanics is essential when considering this question. Barrier beaches like Duxbury are unstable environments. Rising and falling tides constantly shift the sand. Dunes help to lessen the effects of storms. So in order to keep a beach intact over time, its dunes must be nourished and protected.

What does it take to protect a dune in a developed area? Money. For much of the past century, there has been a fee associated with the use of Duxbury Beach. The fees are fed right back into beach maintenance and preservation.

People used to drive wherever they wanted on Duxbury Beach, tearing up and flattening the dunes. Then in 1954, Hurricane Carol took its toll and served as a wake-up call for the town. Citizens began to rally around beach preservation. Some care was taken to rebuild the dunes, installing snow fence and planting beach grass to help prevent sand from washing away. Eventually a summer traffic patrol was approved.

Back then, the beach belonged to a group of private owners, the Duxbury Beach Association (DBA). The DBA built the resident and visitor parking lots and leased the beach to the town; the town, in turn collected parking fees. (In 1964, it was $1 for residents and $2 for non-residents.)

 In 1975, the beach’s management was reorganized as a nonprofit, becoming the Duxbury Beach Reservation (DBR). Its mission statement included the equally-rated points of restoring and preserving the beaches in their natural state, and maintaining access both for Duxbury residents and the general public. Like its predecessor, the DBR leased the beach to the town.

Disaster struck in 1978, when the infamous blizzard caused 26 major wash-throughs, plus numerous partial breaches. Some dunes were flattened, and deep drifts of sand and stone covered the main parking lot. The road to The Gurnet and Saquish was completely destroyed in some sections.

After that, beach conservation efforts intensified. It took several years, but a right of way along the bay side of the beach was constructed, sharply delineated by post and cable fencing. Snow fence and grass planting efforts were stepped up, and over time the beach was significantly restored.

But the No-Name Storm of 1991 was even more destructive. Again, there were breaches and numerous washovers; many dunes were obliterated, and the road to the Gurnet and Saquish sustained major damage. Grass planting and snow fencing proved once again to be effective remedies. And added to the mix this time was a crackdown on oversand vehicles.

 Prior to 1992, vehicles could drive almost anywhere on the beach, but beginning that year, the DBR began restricting traffic to a single lane, east of the dunes. Two crossovers provided access to the beach, and parking was permitted only in a single line in a designated area. The DBR measured the beach to see how many cars could fit on it. They set the limit at 500 at any one time, and divided this into 250 resident and 250 non-resident admissions.

You may ask, “Why so many non-residents?” This is another key point in the dilemma. The fact that Duxbury Beach has always been accessible to the public is one of the primary factors in its continued existence. In the 1950s and 60s there were a number of attempts by the state to take the beach by eminent domain. Because the DBA could prove that there was public access to the beach, it was able to maintain ownership. It’s worth noting here that it’s the parking and access fees that pay for beach maintenance – not property taxes.

Readers may be surprised to learn that the shorebird monitoring program, which protects two threatened species -- piping plovers and least terns – actually helps to keep the beach open to the public. Funded by the annual lease, this program ensures the protection of these birds as required by the Federal Endangered Species Act. Were it not for the presence of the town’s Endangered Species Officer, large sections of the beach would be closed during nesting season (most of the summer).

On top of that, the town is obliged by the state to keep the right of way out to Saquish open at all times. Are you following me here? Duxbury is bound by state law to keep the road open, and bound by federal law to protect the birds. This all requires money. Where does the money come from? Parking fees! Without recreational access to the beach, there would be no money for ecological concerns. Without tireless efforts to preserve the beach, there would be no beach left to enjoy. It’s an endless cycle . . . and a delicate balance.

 So to answer the question at last, what is the impact of all these vehicles on the beach? I was relieved to learn that the DBR conducted numerous studies and – now that traffic is controlled and shorebirds are protected -- the ecological damage from vehicles is negligible.

This year, oversand vehicle permits cost $160 for residents and $295 for non-residents. Parking in the town lot, which holds 440 cars, is $80 annually. Non-residents can park in an adjacent lot for $15 per day. While only 500 vehicles can fit on the beach at any given time, permit sales are not subject to limits. Last year around 4,000 resident stickers were sold, as well as around the same number of non-resident, bringing in about $1.7 million total.

Duxbury Beach is one of the most beautiful places on the South Shore. An occasional visit is absolutely worth the non-resident parking fee. Knowing what the beach – and its caretakers – has sustained over the years makes it seem even more precious. If you don’t like crowds, try visiting at off-hours. It’s just as spectacular on a sunny spring or autumn day as it is midsummer.

To learn more about Duxbury Beach, read the excellent Duxbury Beach Book by Margaret M. Kearney and Kay Foster (2007).  

by Kezia Bacon, April 2012

Kezia Bacon's articles appear courtesy of the North and South Rivers Watershed Association, a local non-profit organization devoted to the preservation, restoration, maintenance and conservation of the North and South Rivers and their watershed. For membership information and a copy of their latest newsletter, contact NSRWA at (781) 659-8168 or visit www.nsrwa.org. To browse 15 years of Nature (Human and Otherwise) columns, visit http://keziabaconbernstein.blogspot.com

When I Hear The Frogs

One of my favorite essayists, EB White, while reporting to the New Yorker magazine from his farm in Maine one winter a long time ago, summed up his eagerness for spring with these words. “I will feel a whole lot better when I hear the frogs.”

Well, I have heard the frogs, and I do feel better.

The spring peepers arrived in early March this year, heralding the start of an unseasonably warm spell that lasted more than a week. I know this all too well, because beginning the first day of that warm spell and outlasting its ten-day stretch, I had a miserable cold. Unfortunate timing on my part -- I enjoyed the fine weather through my open windows while I tried to rest and recuperate.

The spring peepers do not usually begin singing this early in the season. The night I first heard them, it wasn’t even spring yet!

One afternoon during the warm spell, I was at the playground with a couple of friends and our respective children. The kids wore shorts and t-shirts and – their faces flushed -- kept asking for more water. Who could blame them? It was 85 degrees out. (Some of my other friends spent that afternoon at the beach. Yes, on March 22, the third day of spring.) None of us were complaining about the weather – a warm sunny day is generally welcome. But one friend commented how it “just felt weird,” and I concurred. Was this unusually warm and nearly snow-free winter just a freak happenstance, or was it a palpable example of the effects of global warming? I’ll leave that debate to the experts, but it certainly does make one think, no?

This spring marks the end of a particularly difficult year in my personal life -- the breakup of my marriage; moving with my five year-old son across town to live with my parents (Abel is with his father half the week and with me the other half). After having lived independently, I found the return to my childhood home to be humbling, to say the least. But the benefits of moving home far outweigh any stigma or inconvenience. I’m a firm believer in the value of the multi-generational family, and we all are loving it here.

That night when I first heard the spring peepers, I was taken aback. I grew up in this house on the upper reaches of the Green Harbor River – there have always been a pond and wetlands out back; the sound of the peepers is deeply ingrained in my life experience. Yet living away for many of the past twenty springs, I’d nearly forgotten them. So when I opened my window that night, the sound was both familiar and completely new – and oh so comforting. Our definitions of home are comprised of so many tiny details – for me, this includes the keening of peepers in early spring.

Days pass, and then weeks, and months, and years. Everything changes – sometimes quickly, sometimes so slowly we barely notice it. As the ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus wrote, "No man ever steps in the same river twice.” If you are suffering, have faith that your suffering will not last forever – at least in the same form. If you are content, appreciate that contentment, knowing that it too is unlikely to endure.

I have been down in the muck, so to speak, here on the banks of my own little river. As difficult as it has been at times, I would not take it back. It has been a year of significant change, but – as is often the case -- also considerable learning and growth. Spring arrives, and with it comes a sense of renewal – and gratitude.

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent
March 2012

Kezia Bacon's articles appear courtesy of the North and South Rivers Watershed Association, a local non-profit organization devoted to the preservation, restoration, maintenance and conservation of the North and South Rivers and their watershed. For membership information and a copy of their latest newsletter, contact NSRWA at (781) 659-8168 or visit www.nsrwa.org. To browse 15 years of Nature (Human and Otherwise) columns, visit http://keziabaconbernstein.blogspot.com

Snowboarding at Forty

It is the middle of unseasonably warm February day, and I am standing at the top of a large hill dubbed The Green Monster, wearing a helmet, sunglasses, a waterproof jacket, snow pants, gloves and clownishly large boots. Strapped to my feet is a four and a half foot long, mock-grafitti’d wood and fiberglass board, which is – in both presence and design -- a near-total anachronism for a suburban 40-year old mom. But I have decided that it is time for me to learn how to snowboard.

The Marshfield Recreation Department offers a variety of classes for adults and children alike, and paging through its brochure earlier this year, I noticed the Mountain Munchkins program for kindergarteners. The class fit perfectly into our schedule, so I asked my son Abel if he would like to try something new: a three-session course in either skiing or snowboarding. He said yes, and in late January, we began reporting to the Blue Hills Ski Area in Canton every Thursday for his 90-minute lesson.

My expectations were low. Abel has tried Music Together, Tumblefun, swim lessons, skateboard lessons, and ice skating, and while he has enjoyed all of these, I haven’t seen anything yet that approaches passion.

Until now. Of the 15 children enrolled in our timeslot, Abel was the only one who chose snowboarding, which meant that he got to have a private class! He was excited to try something new, and even more captivated as we entered the rental barn and saw the equipment. But that was nothing compared to what followed.

Abel was assigned an engaging young instructor named Alec. After explaining how to work the bindings, how to fall and get back up again, and how to “skate” with the board attached to one foot, Alec led Abel up the Magic Carpet to the top of The Green Monster, the larger of Blue Hills’ two beginner’s slopes. And before the end of the 90-minute session, my 5-year-old munchkin was gliding back and forth across the hill, practicing his “falling leaf” technique, wearing an expression of deep concentration. We knew after his second lesson that we’d be signing up for another session, and by the end of his third lesson, he was going down the hill all by himself. He loved it – and I loved watching him. (Parents are permitted to stand behind a fence at the bottom of the hill to observe.)

So if my five year old son wants to snowboard, he’s going to need someone to go with him, right? That someone will have to be me.

I’ve cross-country skied a little bit, but I’ve hit the downhill slopes a total of twice in my life, and the most recent occasion was 25 years ago. Let’s just say I was a little daunted by this snowboarding thing. But I’m in decent physical shape -- how bad could it be?

Friends offered all sorts of “encouraging” comments. “Try not to tear your ACL . . . or break your wrists.” “Your rear end is gonna be sore!” “Mind if I come and watch . . . and laugh?” But I was up for the challenge. So before I could chicken out, I signed up – and paid for – my own private lesson. I opted for a weekday class, when the traffic on the mountain would be light, and I‘d be less likely to cause a collision.

My instructor, James, showed me the same basic techniques that Abel had learned, and very encouragingly told me I was doing well, even when I felt like a total dork. So we too boarded the Magic Carpet and headed up to the top of the hill.

First James taught me how to get the board moving, and walked backwards in front of me, holding my hands, while I tentatively shuffled downhill. Halfway down, he let go and I managed to maintain my balance and get to the bottom.

Thus James concluded that I was ready for the next step, the falling leaf. He explained it to me, demonstrated what I was to do next, and then there I was, very cautiously working the board from side to side down the slope, trying to get a feel for “exactly how this darn thing works.” This involved some falling, plenty of grimacing, and some comical attempts of getting back onto my feet, but overall, I was surprised that I didn’t make a total buffoon of myself.

We went up and down the hill five or six times during my lesson, and each time I had a somewhat better sense of what to do. The casual observer would report seeing flashes of terror across my face every now and then, but I’m intrigued – and challenged – enough that I want to go back and try some more. Friends have assured me that it will take a few lessons before I actually get the hang of it.

Winter isn’t over yet, and even in this super-mild version of winter that we’re experiencing this year, Blue Hills makes it own snow, and remains open for business as far into the season as the weather permits. Individuals and groups of all ages can sign up for lessons for both skiing and snowboarding. I’ve found the staff to be skilled, engaging, and fun.

More experienced skiers and snowboarders can check out the property’s 60 acres of slopes, including 12 trails and a terrain park, plus a double chair lift, two conveyor belt-type lifts and a handle tow. Blue Hills is open most nights ‘til 9, and half of the ski area has night lighting. There is a lodge with a snack bar, and a well-stocked rental barn. It’s a great place to learn something new, polish your skills, or just satisfy an itch for snow sports, especially if you don’t have time to make the trip to the larger mountains up north. I wish I had discovered this place 30 years ago!

The Blue Hills Ski Area is located at 4001 Washington Street in Canton, MA, just minutes from Route 93. It is owned by the state Department of Conservation & Recreation (DCR) and is currently managed by company that specializes in small ski resorts. Organized skiing on Great Blue Hill has been going on since at least the 1930s, when the Civilian Conservation Corps cut the first two trails there. In 1949 the Metropolitan District Commission added rope tows and some additional trails, and chair lifts were built in the 1960s. The area has been revitalized in the past decade and is an inviting place for individuals and families. Learn more at http://ski-bluehills.com.

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent
February 2012

Kezia Bacon's articles appear courtesy of the North and South Rivers Watershed Association, a local non-profit organization devoted to the preservation, restoration, maintenance and conservation of the North and South Rivers and their watershed. For membership information and a copy of their latest newsletter, contact NSRWA at (781) 659-8168 or visit www.nsrwa.org. To browse 15 years of Nature (Human and Otherwise) columns, visit http://keziabaconbernstein.blogspot.com

Walking The Labyrinth

Before my son was born five years ago, I used to attend semi-annual yoga retreats at Kripalu in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. While there, I would take classes to help me develop my skills as a yoga and meditation teacher. But just as importantly, the retreats helped me to take a break from the hustle and bustle of daily life. I didn’t have to cook, or clean, or take care of anyone but myself, and I reveled in the relative peace and solitude.

Once my son arrived, yoga retreats were the farthest thing from my mind. I had a baby to take care of, and then a toddler, and then a preschooler. I might find small pockets of time for myself, but never a whole week or weekend.

At Kripalu, one of my favorite activities was walking the labyrinth. Dating back 4,000 years and present in cultures around the globe, the labyrinths presents an ideal opportunity for meditation. Circular in shape, it is in essence just a walking path. But its intricate design – a series of precisely rounded corners that fold in upon themselves – lends a certain meaning or power.

Labyrinths may be constructed of any material. Some are situated indoors -- like the one comprised of blue and white stone inside Chartres Cathedral in France – and some are laid out in a more natural setting. There are even portable labyrinths, printed on canvas. At Kripalu, the labyrinth stands on a grassy hill, its path outlined with stones.

To walk the labyrinth as a meditation, when you first step onto the path, you might ask a question or set an intention for yourself. Then with each step, you continue to ponder that question. Maintaining focus is not easy, but setting a very slow walking pace helps a lot. When you reach the center, you might pause to reflect, and then you continue on, retracing your steps all the way out.

If nothing else, walking the labyrinth offers quiet time for reflection. But it’s been my experience that it tends to evoke insights and inspiration. Often the question I ask going in is answered soon after. Maybe not while I’m in the labyrinth itself, but within a few hours or days. I find it a helpful exercise when I need to change my perspective or sharpen my focus on a particular thing.

Shortly after my son was born, I learned about the labyrinth at Miramar Retreat Center in Duxbury. I wrote a note to myself, pinned it to my office bulletin board, but never actually managed to get there. I forgot about it, more or less, although the note remained plainly visible, its salmon-colored paper fading over time.

Last year was tumultuous for my family. My husband and I split up, and my son and I moved across town to live with my parents (he goes to his dad the second half of each week). With shared custody, all of a sudden I had a little bit of time to myself. As 2011 drew to a close, I felt like I needed to reflect on the past year and figure out my priorities for 2012. A yoga retreat was an option, but I wondered if I might find the same benefits closer to home. Then I remembered the labyrinth.

So on the last day of the year, I headed over to Miramar. Do you know about this place? Built by the Loring family in 1876, Miramar – three buildings on 27 acres overlooking Kingston Bay -- became the summer home of William Cardinal O’Connell of Boston in the early 1900s. In 1922 it was converted into a seminary for the (Catholic) Society of the Divine Word. Over time, additional facilities were constructed – a chapel, a school, a gym, even grottoes, and 37 adjacent acres were purchased. Miramar flourished as a minor seminary and eventually gained accreditation as a two-year college liberal arts program. Due to changes within the church, the school itself closed its doors in the 1960s, but Miramar lives on to this day as a retreat center.

When I inquired, five years ago, a staff member explained to me how to find the labyrinth. She said to drive all the way into the parking lot, and then look for the walkway near the gift shop. But instead of going toward the shop, she instructed me to take a right and walk across the grass, down a slight incline. The labyrinth would be visible at that point.

And indeed it was. I found a small garden, and beyond it, a flat grassy area with a six-foot tall crucifix at its farthest point. The labyrinth was set out on a circle of reddish wood chips; its paths lined with simple gray bricks.

Stepping into the labyrinth, I set my intention: to ponder what changes I wanted to make in my life, and what goals I wanted to achieve, in 2012. I repeated the question to myself a few times as I began to walk, very slowly, through the labyrinth. I walked, and I walked, each step soft yet deliberate.

There was a stone bench at the center. When I reached it, I opted not to sit down (it was chilly out), but instead turned toward the water. It was too gray a day to enjoy the view, so I just stood there in the breeze for a few minutes, breathing the ocean air. Heading back, I began to answer my own question, listing things I could do, or change, to help attain my goals for the coming year. By the time I’d completed my walk, I felt better – more in-charge and focused for the year to come.

Do labyrinths have mystical or magic powers? Some say yes; some say no. For me, they present an opportunity to pause and reflect, and a structure in which to do so. For those of us who think more clearly when we’re moving (as opposed to sitting still), labyrinths are ideal settings for meditation.

After returning from Miramar, I spent some time on its website (miramarretreat.org), hoping to learn more about the facility and its history. What struck me most was the stated mission of the Society of the Divine Word.

To set the captives free
To give sight to the blind
To heal the broken-hearted
To proclaim a year of favor from the Lord

Wasn’t that exactly (in my own way) what I was asking as I walked the labyrinth that day?

Visitor Information: Miramar Retreat Center, 121 Parks Street, Duxbury. 781-585-2460. miramarma@aol.com

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent
January 2012

Kezia Bacon's articles appear courtesy of the North and South Rivers Watershed Association, a local non-profit organization devoted to the preservation, restoration, maintenance and conservation of the North and South Rivers and their watershed. For membership information and a copy of their latest newsletter, contact NSRWA at (781) 659-8168 or visit www.nsrwa.org. To browse 15 years of Nature (Human and Otherwise) columns, visit http://keziabaconbernstein.blogspot.com

My South River

A "hidden" section of the South River, behind a commercial strip on Route 139 in Marshfield.

On December 1, 2011, thanks to major improvements in water quality, 313 acres of shellfish beds on the South River were opened for the first time in twenty years. Twenty years! This is definitely a cause for celebration . . . even for vegetarians like me, and for others with not a glimmer of interest in clams, whether steamed, chowdered, or fried. Barring a red tide, the beds will remain open until June.

I have to admit; I never thought I’d see the day . . .

I first began working with the North and South Rivers Watershed Association, (NSRWA) in 1990, while I was in college. During summers and school breaks, I would hang out in the Norwell office doing menial tasks – mostly data entry (on a Macintosh SE!) and stuffing envelopes. I enjoyed the work because the company was good and I was doing my small part to support the rivers that by then had become part of my sense of “home.”

Even though they embrace the town of Marshfield, where I grew up and presently reside, the North and South Rivers were largely unfamiliar to me until mid-adolescence. Kindergarten through second grade I went to South River Elementary, where a chain link fence divided the school playground from its namesake. To me, the river – overgrown and dark -- was an intrigue, but due to its inaccessibility, it remained simply that. The giant willow tree that stood on its banks at the far end of the playground was a magnet for us second graders. We played under it every day.

My fascination with our locals rivers began when I was 15, thanks to a guy named Ted. Many readers have heard this story before: how on our first date, he led me on a protracted slog through marsh grass that was taller than me. We dragged a small inflatable boat over muddy creeks (some of which I not-so-gracefully fell into), and eventually arrived at the North River, down which we floated in said boat, dipping a paddle into the water ever so often to steer our course. I hated him that day – him and his treacherous path to the river. And before long, I loved him, and I loved that river too. We and our friends spent a lot of time there those next few years – swimming, rope-swinging, canoeing, and “floating,” Ted’s term for our trips in the inflatable boat.

Like most teenage romances, the fire soon burned out, but the love for the rivers that Ted imparted to me only grew stronger. After college I returned to Marshfield and found jobs working on the rivers’ behalf -- first at the North River Commission, and then at the NSRWA. Part of my job was to oversee the annual River Watch Sampling program, for which I dashed around, at high tide, to ten sites, for eight weeks each summer, acquiring water samples, which I then rushed to the lab for testing. The goal: to ascertain whether the water was safe for swimming and shellfishing.

When this began, more than half of the test sites of the North River proved safe, except within three days of a rainstorm, when counts of fecal coliform spiked. The South River, on the other hand, was rarely clean. For years, because of those bacteria, the shellfish beds on both rivers had been closed.

To make a long story short, the NSRWA began an effort in the 1990s to restore water quality in the rivers. This involved finding the sources of pollution and – with the help of volunteers, citizens, town departments and government officials -- abating them. By 1996 the North River shellfish beds were reopened: a triumph!

The South River took a lot more time. The NSRWA’s South River Initiative, launched in 1996, identified the problems and laid out plans to resolve them. It seemed impossible at the time, but 11 years later, thanks in large part to Marshfield’s five-year sewer extension project, a rigorous sampling program, and the dedicated work of Harbormaster Mike DiMeo . . . success!

This past fall my son, Abel, enrolled in kindergarten at South River Elementary. A chain link fence still marks the playground boundary. Aside from some brush-clearing and the construction-in-progress of the South River Park on the other side, it’s still the same old river -- a little murky; definitely mysterious. But it’s not the same old river at all. Downstream, we can swim in it; we can harvest shellfish.

My first day volunteering with the NSRWA I noticed a quotation, posted on the office bulletin board. “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” - Margaret Mead

It took 20 years to reopen the South River shellfish beds, one small step at a time. This indeed is how we change the world. You can bet I’ll be pointing out the South River to my son next time I’m at school with him. This is a story he – along with his classmates – needs to hear.

by Kezia Bacon-Bernstein, Correspondent
December 2011

Kezia Bacon-Bernstein's articles appear courtesy of the North and South Rivers Watershed Association, a local non-profit organization devoted to the preservation, restoration, maintenance and conservation of the North and South Rivers and their watershed. For membership information and a copy of their latest newsletter, contact NSRWA at (781) 659-8168 or visit www.nsrwa.org. To browse 15 years of Nature (Human and Otherwise) columns, visit http://keziabaconbernstein.blogspot.com