The Reservation

November 2005

One dim-lit afternoon we drove out to the Freetown-Fall River State Forest and the Watuppa Reservoir. An untrammeled oasis of peace so near to Fall River's urban sprawl, it retains some of the ambiance of early New England life. At 15 square-miles it is the largest state forest, and it includes a Wampanoag tribal reservation, a continuity with even earlier times. In local parlance when I grew up the entire forest including the reservoir was known as the Reservation
As lovely as it undeniably is, the whole place does have a uncanny feeling to it. It's the aftermath and residue of the many sins that took place here or were dumped here; the occult cults that reputedly teemed here; and the usual supernatural legends concerning evil inhabiting-spirits that abound here.
As youngsters we heard tales of "Herkamire" a demented ghoul and permanent resident of these dark woods. He left an urban-mythic hook hung on the door of couples who tried to use the Reservation's unlit byways for lovers' lanes.
I like how the roads are barely maintained. There are no signs, no inducements to visit. In the time we spent there, only one or two other cars ever drove past. And there are blessed many places there where no cars go.



Leaning road through the Watuppa pond reservoir.

For several years this magnificent pond was my periodic salvation. There were always strictures against leaving one's vehicle even to walk in the woods, let alone posted prohibitions against all fishing and swimming. This was the local population's water supply after all, the clean pond would otherwise soon be over-run and despoiled.
Across an isthmus of land called the Narrows, lies another fresh water pond nearly as large, South Watuppa pond. We might have tried a few casts there as kids, but fish were quite rare in its polluted waters. This side was relatively, miraculously, still clean.
Yes, and I was a clean youth when I fished there. I let the fish swim away again after I unhooked them. You were in much better shape if the cops or warden caught you if you were without any catch. Most of the time you might ride in and out by bike and never be bothered.
One of the greatest moments of my young life was standing naked, up to my waist in the water while casting-out a fishing lure. I caught good-sized bass that raced through the water right past me in real fights. The experience of catching a fish in so direct way was exhilarating. It made me feel as human and alive as I have ever felt. Forty years ago.

After a few years, I left my clandestine fishing trips to the realm of fond memory. I would return on occasion to go swimming during the oppressive humid heat of summer vacations from college. After taking a bus to the end of the line, I'd walk into the reservoir environs. Swimming carried a stiff fine but so few tried that there was little chance of being caught.
With neither towel nor bathing suit, I could say I was merely strolling in the woods if I was stopped and questioned. I would only disrobe after an arduous walk along the edge of the pond. It would have been too much work for anyone to patrol such an area on foot. Once I'd found a spot, it just meant lying low and watching out for boats. Fortunately the boats couldn't come close due to rocky shallows. If they spotted you they would have to send a land-based cop to try to catch you-- but that never happened.
Instead, peace would come falling slow. I would find relief in a swim, a smoke, and a bask in the sunlight and shade of a secluded cove.

The fishing had long-ceased, and even these halcyon secret swims came to be a bygone thing. It became more of a place one would go for a drive. In the 60s we would wander through the Reservation for hours with as many as six in the car. Police were scarce there, so we'd go just to smoke pot for the lack of another cool place. It was relatively safe as long as you kept moving. We would also drive there just to get out of the house, to relieve cabin-fever on a winter night.
In subsequent years, the Reservation has always loomed in my mind as a symbol of sylvan respite. For the most part, it was exempt from the over-lit, noisy, over-populous world, so tedious and grim. The drive around Watuppa pond remained a pilgrimage for me on visits back for the past 30 years.



Paul at the confluence of two streams. He worked for many years as a land-scaper and chose this place for his portrait because of its splendid engineering. Note the two different streams on either side of him that meet here. Paul has studied arbor culture and instructs me in points of interest as we go. A native and life-long area resident of this coastal region, he always went salt-water fishing and had many of the local experiences I missed due to years at university and in cultural and counter-cultural pursuits. So he has long been a guide for me to my native woods and waters. Perhaps I serve as a mytho-poetic guide for him as well. We share many of the same interests in literature and music.
In October of 1978, we hitch-hiked to Lowell to visit Jack Kerouac's grave. We hitch-hiked to Boston to see Bob Dylan that same year, and also to neighboring Providence to see Talking Heads at Brown. I had hitch-hiked across the state many times was quite a pro. At eighteen he was a complete novice and, enchanting as it was, that may have been the extent of it for him. He later became a confirmed Cadillac and Harley Davidson man.
In 1980, when I flew in from California with Lucy, he rallied us to go and see Bob Marley at Brown the very next night. For me it was an almost bittersweet final concert by him, he was still moving but with diminished energy. For newer devotees Lucy and Paul it was a different sort of milestone, their only concert by him. Bob Marley died within a few weeks of that show.
The three of us spent time at the beach or around the wood-stove in my loft whenever we came to Massachusetts in the 80s. He remained a reliable friend as my visits became less frequent since the 90s. And we generally kept in touch by mail over all that time.

Blessedly, on this trip Paul also had a place for me to stay. I was passing through town once again, maybe for the last time.





Old family burial ground, Blossom road, near the Reservation. These early properties are among the last built on this road in the times before the state forest was designated. This family alloted a great deal more space for their progeny than was ever required. Note the authentic stone walls, characteristic of early New England. Note as well the tree house back there amid the bare branches of November.





Walking the wall. The Reservation, Fall River-Freetown.
A masterfully-built stone wall in a deep grove of piney wood.