Manifest Destiny: America from the Bottom Up - Day 7 - Johnston, RI to North Scituate, RI - Ghosts of War

This sleeping spot had been great. There was a stone wall that ran between me and the woods. The leaves were very soft and the roadway was far enough away that I was not very visible. I'd finally fallen asleep at about 3:30 am.

The watch alarm beeped at 5:30 am. I turned it off and fell back asleep for another two hours. By that time the sky was bright and the blue of the sleeping bag was obvious. I also saw that one of the exits from the interstate was funneling traffic onto Route 6A right across from me. So a steady line of cars were able to see me if they actually tried to look.

I wasn't as tired as I thought I'd be. The pack up went well. I kicked my way through the leaves and sticks, back onto Route 6A, which then ended and turned into Route 6, heading west.

I was getting used to looking for sleeping spots even in the morning. More unintentional training. It became a habit, one that would hone itself into a full blown talent in the next few days.

There were lots of pretty lakes and ponds, rivers and old stone walls. The Revolutionary War images that came to me while in Massachusetts, began to turn into Civil War scenes here in Rhode Island. I could picture New England soldiers marching southward, proud but scared. In my imagination the road dissolved and the trees were replaced by fields and much older trees. Power lines turned into the occasional telegraph wire.

The men - or rather the ghosts of the men - had shiny metal buttons, new blue caps, muskets, newly fashioned rifles, and they towed behind them a newly developed weapon: the machine gun.

Gatling Rapid Fire Gun, c.a. 1862.

Courtesy of the National Park Service.

"One of the first successful machine guns was the Gatling, with its revolving barrels. Later, this concept was superseded by belt-fed, high-speed, single-barrel weapons. Recently, however, machine guns like the Vulcan and mini-guns have returned to the revolving principle of the Gatling."

National Park Service

Humanity was quickly perfecting the art of dealing death. The American Civil War was the transition period between the tactics and weaponry of the Colonial Period and what would become the horrific firepower and weapons of mass destruction that would characterize the two World Wars to follow.

Along with new weapons, came the widespread use of morphine for the first time in a major war. It had been isolated from the Papaver somniferum plant (the opium poppy) 60 years before, in 1804. But, its real potential for pain relief in hospitals and thence in battlefield hospitals came with the invention of the hypodermic needle in 1852, just before the Southern Rebellion.

Whatever you may think about the reputation of opiates in modern times, nothing brought more relief to wounded soldiers in the Civil War and the subsequent wars that would soon follow than did morphine delivered by injection. The poppy plant has gotten a bad rap because of human behavior, the irresponsible marketing of Big Pharma, and the subsequent over-reach of governments to control it...and blame it--an inanimate object. I thought - on this day - what a cop-out it is to demonize things, when it is their users (we) who make them destructive. The same could be said for guns.

The day was cool, but not overly so. As I passed along the leaf-littered banks of Moswansicut Pond, I noticed that there were fences on both sides of the road with yellow signs warning against trespassing. The lakes and pond of that area are the major reservoirs and sources of water for the city of Providence. It was obvious that a great deal of work had gone into preserving the land; some of which - though looking like it was in its original natural state - had been painstakingly built up with the redirection of water and the intentional demolition of old dams. This great project sometimes forced entire towns to be moved, with their land flooded over.

It fascinates me to no end to learn of the major historical disruptions to people's lives as these events become so faded with the passing of time that they are all but forgotten today. Older generations lose their passion for fighting against unfair social policies in proportion to their subsequent replacement by newer generations. The Scituate, Rhode Island river diversion was one of those disruptions. I would only learn the details of this story the next day when I met my second friend in Rhode Island, Raymond DiCarlo, a Providence Water worker, whom I will profile in the next post. For a detailed account of one related drama that took place almost a hundred years ago, I refer you to the article, Scituate Reservoir: A Story of Sacrifice, by Robert L. Smith.

I wanted to get into Connecticut, but not too far north of the coast.  I was afraid of going too far west and not being able to find a south-running route, once over the state line. The last thing I wanted was to end up in the Hartford area--another big city.

So I decided to leave Route 6 and head south down Elmdale Road. I continued straight to Danielson Pike. There were signs to North Scituate. Figuring there would probably be a more major road through that town, I turned and hiked east; a direction I always dreaded seeing the compass point towards. I had the feeling there were stores ahead. I was hungry and needed someplace like Dunkin Donuts with Wi-Fi to touch base with my friends on Facebook and examine Google Maps.

I passed by the State Police Barracks just as a crew-cut officer passed by me in his jogging gear, running toward the gate of the building. Next to meet my gaze on the left was the State of Rhode Island: State Police Museum. Must have been an interesting place, but not interesting enough to sway me from finding lunch and internet service.

Then I saw a strange structure called the "Horseshoe Dam," which was built to allow natural overflow during flooding, to keep that end of Scituate Reservoir at a certain level...

The Horseshoe Dam, North Scituate, Rhode Island.

I was walking into the heart of the little village of North Scituate, part of Scituate proper. It was a sweet little New England town that looked as though it had been peeled off a Norman Rockwell calendar, pushed on the z-axis to become 3D, and then sprinkled with sunshine and flower pots.

The 'Old Congregational Church' North Scituate, Rhode Island.

When I got to the corner of Danielson Pike and Route 116, I did a good look-over. Nope. No Dunkin Donuts. I supposed it would not belong in such an old fashioned village.

The pack was really bearing down on my shoulders. The sun was way past its zenith and I had to begin thinking about finding a place to spend the night. I was a bit frustrated with myself for once again falling off the beaten path (Route 6). However, as I would learn the next day, there truly is a Reason for everything.

Not knowing where to start, I headed to a service station called, Scituate Auto Center at the intersection of Danielson Pike and Route 116. There, behind the counter was a very helpful gentleman. He directed me to the cafe across the street for free WiFi. He also offered directions and options for heading southwest toward Connecticut on my travels the next day. I wish I had gotten his name. Maybe I will when this blog is finally turned into a book.

After removing the pack to rest for a moment, I strapped it back on and headed across to the Robin's Nest Cafe and Bakery...
                                                                                                   

Google Street View image.

Now, despite this little cafe being internet friendly (even having an outlet outside), I could not seem to find a website for it at the time to direct you. Regardless, it did the trick.

The man behind the counter was (I thought) the spitting image of Anthony Bourdain - one of my culinary and travel heroes, and host of such great shows as "No Reservations" - and he had the same kind of personality. They were just closing and he offered an egg, cheese and sausage frittata and a slice of pizza for free. He also offered to let me sit outside and use the Wi-Fi for as long as I wanted that evening. This was the Rhode Island attitude that I was beginning to truly appreciate. So far, I'd noticed that these folks give with no expectation of receiving anything back. And, they were not the type of people who pulled punches. They were just energetic, hardworking, life-lovers.

I sat outside eating my pizza as it grew dark. I did what I needed to do online and worked until the chill in the air reminded me that it was time to build my nightly nest...somewhere.

I had earlier decided that if no better option presented itself, I would sneak onto some part of the fenced reserve. One of the secrets to finding sleeping places that I was learning was that (counter-intuitively) I am least likely to be discovered if I do things in plain sight, but that people would never guess; in ways that they would also never expect. So, as Iwallked west back along Danielson Pike, I saw a dark, unfenced area in the trees, just diagonally across from the State Police Barracks. The little voice gave an affirmation and across the field I ran when no cars were in sight.

I entered the woods, which was fully open, level and well appointed with a thick layer of leaves. The one thing I had not done, or rather, failed to do in time, was buy something to drink. The saltiness of the pizza was taking its revenge, and after a day of walking and sweating I was utterly parched. It was only the beginning of the night.

My mind instantly went into water-fantasyland as it had back on the night of my Massachusetts Interstate 93 experience near Blue Hills Reservation. I turned my attention to finding a place for rolling out the sleeping bag.

Suddenly, I heard very heavy foot falls out in the darkness just behind me. There were a serious of faster rustles and snorts in other directions too. This was before I'd learned more about the kinds of large animals I would run into and their real behaviors.

For the first time on this journey I reverted back to a more primitive form of anxiety. I even took a picture of the forest void to detect any eyes, or other animal forms that might be lurking. But this is all I saw...

Something's out there...?

I put down the little towel I use to rest my head on when I sleep, but I was hesitant to pull out the sleeping bag until I felt more comfortable in that place. Under normal, well-hydrated, circumstances I don't believe I would have been anxious at all. But the distractions of my thirst had made me hyper-vigilant. I sat up most of the night staring into the blackness, with my ears carefully examining each sound. It should have been a comfortable and restful night. Instead it was another of the long nights I would endure. 

By about 2:30 am, something inside me said, Well, if something bad was going to happen it would have, so get some sleep. I complied and pulled out my sleeping bag, climbed into it and immediately fell into unconsciousness, not waking until the beep of my watch toned in at 5:30 am. I had little idea that my first great spiritual transformation and the answers to my many inner questions about why I was doing what I was doing, and what it was all for, would shortly be answered - in large part - in the light of the next morning...

The Scituate Sleeping Place.