Connecticut is at the infestation epicenter of a beast that kills some 200 Americans a year; injures at least 10,000 others; is annually responsible for billions of dollars in property damage; trashes native ecosystems; and spreads an infection that causes fever, headache, fatigue, and, if untreated, injury to joints, heart, and brain.
Some of the finest fly-fishing in all of New England takes place in the headwaters of the Connecticut River, in Pittsburg, New Hampshire.
Last fall I set out once again to witness the magnificent foliage of Mount Sugarloaf in the late afternoon light.
The value of open land accessible to all of us has never been clearer: as the pandemic has shown, available, safe outdoor spaces are critical to our overall health and happiness.
My battalion of three-month Connecticut Union Army volunteers, along with a cavalry unit and a couple of drummer boys, sailed out of New Haven on board a double paddle-wheel ferry headed for Camp Glenwood, a mile or two north of Washington, DC.
On September 1, 1914, at 1:00 p.m., the last passenger pigeon on Earth, Martha (named after Martha Washington), died at the Cincinnati Zoo.
In the marsh, the wilderness makes its last stand.” So wrote the eminent New England bird man, Edward Howe Forbush, now more than a century ago.
The river stank. For decades, towns, industries, and farms from Vermont to Long Island Sound had dumped vile and destructive wastes of every kind into her waters.
Unfortunately, finding the right native shrub can be daunting, and the offerings from the easy-to-find places, such as the local grocery store or big box hardware stores, have a limited menu, most of which are non-native and too many of which are invasive.
Tucked away in the Northwest corner of Connecticut flows a river that once was deemed “unsuitable and undrinkable.” Remarkably, this same waterway, the Farmington River, today provides a major recreational paradise, one of the top trout fishing rivers in New England, and clean drinking water for nearly one million people in Hartford County.
The headlines are discouraging: A 69% average decline of birds, amphibians, mammals, fish, and reptiles since 1970.* I
From the observation room at the top of Heublein Tower on Talcott Mountain, you stand almost 1,000 feet above the Farmington River. The magnificent castle was a summer retreat promised by Gilbert Heublein to his wife, Louise, and opened to the public in 1974. Today, it stands just off the New England National Scenic Trail and has one of the best views in southern New England.
Just at the southern bend of the Farmington River, high on a hill above Miss Porter’s School and the grave of William Gillette, poets are gathering.
At the end of summer, just as leaves began to tinge with gold, fifty people gathered on the banks of the Farmington River to plant a native red maple in memory of David K. Leff.
While Mum cleared the supper dishes from the table, Cap starts talking about me taking over responsibility of the ferry right away, saying nice things like I’m so much better at ferrying than he ever was when he was my age, and how I know so much more now because I’ve made a study of the river, the tides, the currents, and such, and how my whole approach to ferrying is more modern than his.
The tall mountains of the Pacific Northwest usually gather a lot of snow that typically lasts through the summer. The snowmelt provides a reliable source of cool water that descends the rivers, supporting salmon and trout populations. In the Connecticut River watershed, the pattern is different.
The Tunxis Indians were the among the first people to utilize the land and the waters along the Farmington River, which were rich in wildlife, for hunting and fishing. In the early 1600s, the English settlers arrived.
“Head for the inlets, where the sea breaks through,” wrote Roger Tory Peterson,* “if you wish to see birds by the hundreds”; and this 14-year-old had dearly wished to do just that. I asked my dad, who had grown up here at the mouth of the Connecticut, and he knew of exactly such an inlet.
Each spring when the light returns and the crocuses bloom is an important time for the Conte National Fish and Wildlife Refuge: the Congressional Appropriations process.
Like a tree trunk dividing upward into branches and small twigs, our river systems have incredible complexity. The Connecticut River drains a vast, 11,000-acre watershed with many tributaries. Species of migratory fish ascended most of these, to differing degrees, depending upon which species and which tributary.