I stood, facing north, at the West Oak trailhead and parking area, which is located at the intersection of Oak Hill and Slough roads. A range of mountains in the distance was visible. Some days those mountains are an intense dark blue, other days they are light blue, or, on a bright day, primary blue or purple. Or they may disappear altogether on a dark, overcast day.
On a recent rainy day, the mountains were invisible, but the water in the pond at the base of the hill was a shiny silver color, more striking even than on a bright sunny day, when it reflects the color of the sky or surrounding pines.
A mowed path leads directly down to the pond to a cleared area where I took in the scene from what felt like the bottom of a bowl. Behind me, the trailhead and road disappeared beyond the crest of the hill and a steep wall of dry grasses.
In front of me was a beaver lodge that may have been abandoned, since no fresh repairs to the lodge or piles of food on top of the lodge or fresh gnaw marks on nearby sticks were apparent. Chartreuse and yellow trees in an orchard to the west lined the high rim of the bowl and were reflected in the water.
To continue on the trail, I crossed a little bridge over a gurgling stream and stepped carefully off the bridge onto an uneven spot of upheaved rocks and roots, the only tricky part of the trail.
Soon, a secondary trail on the left drew me into exploring the edge of the pond lined with cattails. Wide, sturdy snowmobile bridges spanned some wet areas, but brush and a deer fence surrounding the orchard and dipping into the pond prevented me from thinking about going completely around the pond.
So I returned to the main trail, which weaved its way through a forest of pines, a few with scars or bends in their trunks. After two snowmobile bridges over streams bubbling downhill, a Harvard Conservation Commission sign tacked on a tree reminded me that I was walking onto Dunlap land. Picturesque openings in stone walls, one with a view of a beautiful white barn in the distance, convey a sense of human history.
As the trail continued to gradually climb uphill after the stream crossings, the forest became more light-filled, and the number of pines diminished and hardwoods increased. Most of the trees were straight, and of similar circumference and height.
The undulating forest floor was rust-colored, due to the blending of several layers of burgundy, yellow ocher, orange, brown, and gold oak leaves of various shapes, each shape indicating a species of red oak, white oak, black oak, scrub oak, or scarlet oak.
Acorns may have already been “squirreled away” or the drought may have affected their numbers, but I didn’t see many nor did my feet roll around on them.
The trail continued to wend its way, with occasional orchard views on the right, to an open green field with a pile of rocks in its center. Then it made a left turn before the entrance into the field and soon crossed Old Littleton Road onto the Fuller-Dudley Woods. From Old Littleton Road the trail went gradually downhill until I was facing a long, weathered stone wall covered with green lichen. I turned right and walked beside the stone wall until it ended at a large stone, 1 mile from the trailhead.
Instead of continuing on to what becomes a shared driveway to Littleton Road, I turned around and began to retrace my steps through the rust-colored landscape. When I looked over my shoulder at Littleton Road and then faced the trail, I was impressed by Oak Hill’s high degree of elevation.
On my return trip I noticed that the wall borders a wide cart path or an old road. That’s why I don’t mind retracing steps on an out-and-back walk: A trail is always different from the opposite direction, if for no other reason than the change in the direction of the sun and wind. That day, I faced the now-setting sun glowing behind shadowy-black tree trunks.
This trail is moderately easy, well groomed, and beautiful now, but I can imagine it with a depth of sparkling white snow burying the fading fall colors, the terrain perfect for traipsing around with snowshoes or cross-country skis.
Margaret Kusner is a retired middle school art teacher, a lifelong artist, and a walker who considers herself to be a part of nature.
