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Clatter Valley

May 6, 2022

In the late1600’s the frontier town of Farmington was connected to Hartford by way of the Clatter Valley Road. It was the clattering of the horse drawn wagons making their way over the rough terrain that gave the road its name.

By the time my great grandmother bought the property the road was no longer a public right of way, but they kept it cleared and used it as access to the pond, pastures, and woodlots.  It was still technically drivable when I was a kid, but no one ever did. My mom walked it most days, and even as a small child, the majesty of the landscape was not lost on me. The old growth hemlocks had remained untouched for a hundred years or more and the forest, having been left to its own devices, became what every forest strives to become, a “closed canopy, late successional, climax forest”.

The towering trees shaded out all the underbrush, and about the only thing that grew were the wild grapes whose vines wound their way to sunlight 100 feet above the forest floor. Those vines, with trunks the size of a grown man’s leg, were an endless source of entertainment. My cousin and I used to swing from them, trying to out Tarzan each other. It’s amazing that we both survived - with all our bones intact.  

I mourned the day that piece of the property fell into the hands of a developer - but 20 years later it now belongs to the Farmington Land Trust. Walking the road today is like visiting with an old friend, a friend I thought I’d lost forever.

The forest has changed a lot - most of the hemlocks succumbed to the wooly adelgid and dense stands of impenetrable invasives have moved in.  The massive oaks are doing their best to fill the space in the canopy that the fallen hemlocks left behind. I do believe eventually they’ll succeed. It’ll probably take another hundred years, but in the end, the forest always wins.

Anne and I have been helping the Land Trust clear and reclaim the old road as a hiking trail. After several work parties, the roadbed is at last visible again, and for those of us with vivid imaginations you can almost hear the clatter of the wagons resupplying the “Farming Town” on the edge of the wilderness.

 

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