A Night Hike To Imagine……..
I have always thought that people too quickly leave their imagination behind when venturing into the outdoors. Sure, planning is important, safety is too. However, in the end, too often, we tend to judge our experience more on what we physically accomplish rather than what we see and who we can be.
Over the past several years, some of my most memorable and passionate trips into nature have been as a historical reenactor. Perhaps feeling stale or even somewhat bored with my outdoor adventures of recent, I found that historical reenacting gave me a way to enjoy the outdoors from a different perspective.
On many recent occasions, I have set foot in the wilderness as a French and Indian War era longhunter wandering the forests, firelock in hand, avoiding the local natives while in search of game. Wearing only traditional clothes and carrying period equipment, I have often found myself in situations that would classify me as a "pilgrim" but in an exciting way. With this new approach to the outdoors, I began to find my outdoor adventures, each and every trip, more anticipated and remembered as I coupled my imagination, love of history and my need to learn and know about the past, and my passion to be outdoors. And as I do more, I find myself wanting more.
Recently the 225th celebration of the battles of Lexington and Concord, the first clash of British Regulars and Colonists that began the American Revolution, took place in and around the sites and towns of the original battles. It was going to be a big and exciting event for any reenactor to attend. However, my pards and I wanted to not only attend the event but also experience as much of this historic day and live the legend of the minuteman as we could. We decided that rather than just arrive at the event in a school bus with the other 1000 reenactors and play out the battle scenarios; we would try something different. We could relive perhaps the most famous part of the battle for the minuteman, the early morning march to the battle.
As described in legend and lore, "minuteman", one of the many names given to local town militia members, were always ready at a minute’s notice to be summoned to the march, with firelock in hand, ready to defend their land against the tyranny and unjust rulings of King George III. Now, no matter what your take on the political reasons and correctness of the beginning of the American Revolution, nobody would disagree that the minuteman was one of the strongest and most romantic characters to come out of the conflict. It was the minuteman’s early morning adventure, awoken by the bells of freedom in a local Massachusetts town that chilly morning of April 19th, 1775, that we hoped to relive with the help of a selected route in a local forest and with a bit of imagination.
That morning my pard Jedediah, and I were raised early from a somewhat nervous and anxious sleep. That chilly morning, with only the moon as our light, we all had somewhat of a mad scramble to dress in our traditional colonial garb, collect our traps, grab our firelocks, and turn out with the other brave lads as the alarm sounded.
The good Constable of Sudbury would now lead us over the dark trails and paths to our destination, the North Bridge in Concord, site of the first stand of the Minutemen that fateful day. The British regulars, the much despised "lobsterbacks" were marching from Boston to seize the store of arms and powder in Concord. We, along with minuteman from the surrounding towns were determined to meet the British regulars and turn them back to Boston before they could capture our military stores.
Our hike began in the fading moonlight somewhere in Lincoln and would take us some 5 miles to our final destination. The Constable and Jedediah have walked this route before and will be leading our group of nine brave lads over Mt Misery, around a pond called Walden, through the village of Concord, and to the bridge for our heroic stand. Not too far a trip by any means, but at dawn, wearing colonial clothing with stiff leather wooden soled shoes, outfitted with all the traps one would carry in this time and carrying an eight pound firelock, it would seem longer.
We stepped off into the forest at 4:30am. The moon, though not full, was just bright enough to guide us as we climbed up Mt Misery and headed towards our appointment with history. It didn’t take long for our intrepid group of history seekers to spread out over the first mile of trail. Still, we were all full of excitement for what lay ahead and continued to all move forward.
The forest is so magical and beautiful at this time of day. I found that each and every direction you look, no matter how close you are to civilization and the modern intrusions of the 21st century, the darkness seems to swallow the modern world all up and all one can see is what they want. In my case, armed with not only a firelock but with my imagination, I choose to see the primitive and pristine forest of the 18th century. I see forest, I see farm, I see as much, or in this case, as little as I want to see. My imagination has already taken over my mind. To me, it is now 1775 and we are moving forward through the 18th century and into history.
We stop in a small clearing at the top of a rise. The Constable spends a moment surveying the terrain and then quickly gathers his bearings. He moves us off silently and swiftly as we plunge downward and meander around a small beaver pond. The light of a distant farmhouse is noticeable to our right but we do not stop in to be neighborly this morning. The redcoats are out from Boston and are marching on Concord and we are determined to make it to our appointed destination. On to Concord to meet them and defeat them.
Just as the sun begins to rise, we arrive at the pond known as Walden. We stop for a short rest, and pay heed to our firelocks. The air is damp this morning and as we quietly chat and laugh, we are sure to wipe down our muskets and keep them free of the morning dew. Damp powder and a rusty musket can be the end of even the bravest patriot this coming morning. Funny the thoughts that one thinks of naturally when an imagination is allowed to run wild.
We push on soon enough. The men are restless and spoiling for a fight. Lt. Harmon, our leader, reminds us all of what we have learned in drill over the winter. We barely listen. We all feel sure of what it is we will be asked do this morning. Even Robert, perhaps the preacher in our group, has taken up the unfamiliar firelock this morning and with bible in one hand and musket in the other, is ready to do what is asked of him. As we continue our walk, we all give our brave clergyman impromptu lessons and suggestions in the proper use of a firelock. There is no doubt in my mind now; we are a group of men from Sudbury hiking over the trails and woodlands of New England towards an unavoidable battle for freedom.
We soon exit the forest in the early morning light and make our way into the small town of Concord. From the sound of things, we are ahead of the British regulars and have time for a quick bite to eat and something to drink before we make our stand. We cross a few farms, walk across the town green, and enter the local roadhouse to enjoy fresh baked goods and coffee compliments of the proprietor. There will be none of the King’s tainted tea consumed by our band of patriotic men this morning. We make ourselves at home and enjoy the spread. Ziffadiah and Silas, two of the more robust members of our company, especially enjoy the hospitality.
We speak with many other visitors in the sitting room as we relax. There are even a few children, eyes wide with amazement as they stare sheepishly from behind their parents at the group of colonial men. Joe and the new man in town, a pleasant fellow named Mark, question the youngsters who we think could be spies. Luckily, all youngsters encountered, with smiles and giggles, pass our test and are invited to someday sign our muster.
Lt. Harmon, though holding his rank by our vote, still commands our group and our attention. Sensing the men becoming too settled in the comfortable surroundings, Lt. Harmon gives the order to prepare to depart. I am the last one out the door to join the group in the roadhouse frontyard as we begin the final leg of our trip to the North Bridge.
All of a sudden, without warning, like awaking from a dream, the modern world has asserted itself on our adventure. Walking on pavement and dodging cars and pedestrians, we walk the final mile and soon reach the North Bridge, joining the other militiamen who road buses from camp. We all now form up and prepare for battle. Our historical trek and hurried imagination filled walk in the dark had ended.
It was a reenactor’s day to remember. The music, the flags, the marching, the always awe inspiring site of the British redcoats in formation. As true to history, in the first crash of musketry, we ambushed the brightly clad Regulars as they marched back from the bridge towards Boston. The beginning of a day of running battles and skirmishes that took all of us, men running and whooping like boys, all the way back to Lexington, foot sore and exhausted. What a day to be a historian, a reenactor, and an American with so much to see, to be part of and celebrate, to remember and to enjoy.
Ever since I can remember, I have loved to hike and be in the outdoors. I have climbed so many peaks thoughout New England. There were summer and winter climbs, and even rock and ice technical assents. However, even before I learned to hike, I loved to imagine. Now there is my recent historical hike in the dawn’s early light to remember and savor.
I am not sure if I will ever return to Mt Misery and the pond called Walden. To hike them now, in the 21st century, would be like a child seeing the strings on their favorite puppet. I would much prefer to relax and remember the morning that I felt closest to my passions, history and the outdoors, enjoying them both in a magical way, led through the darkness of the forest with urgency by Jed and the Constable. In my colonial outfit and traps, with trusty firelock over my shoulder, my pards at my side, reliving a hike into history, retracing the steps of our forefathers.
It will never be the longest hike I have done, but it stands as the most memorable. I just know that any adventure outdoors, whether in the White Mountains or right in your own suburban back yard can be as memorable and enjoyable as you it allow it to be. With imagination and a true love of the forest, we can see, experience, and be whatever we want to be.
Contributed by Vincent (Obediah) Spiotti