Kent

by Bernard Martoia

At dawn, the cold nipped at Waffle Print’s fingers, forcing him to wear gloves when he left the cozy campsite beside the babbling stream.

The thick foliage allowed only a little sunlight to pass, and the oak leaves took on a golden hue.

“It’s almost peak leaf season!” He observed with delight. “Nothing beats it,” he added.

Given his romantic character, beauty resonated with his emotions.

The romanticist movement, which emerged in the first half of the 19th century, appealed to him because of its worship for nature and its idealization of the past, its focus on the chivalry of the Middle Ages, as exemplified by “Ivanhoe” and “Don Quixote” in literature. The commemoration of the heroic and the sublime from his youth onward nurtured his chivalrous soul.

He experienced a sensation of well-being — a rare occurrence in his demanding timetable.

The path after Hammersly Ridge entered a wetland zone close to Deer Hollow Creek.

Along the riverbank covered with pine trees, he spotted a campsite that surpassed in beauty and comfort the one where he had slept.

He reckoned, “It was the right call to stop and snag a good camping spot before it got dark.” His choice was logical, given the incomplete information at his disposal.

Without any anticipation, he crossed the Constitutional State border at Hoyt Road.

“This makes five! Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York are already in the bag.” He used his fingers to keep track.

The oak tree displayed two indications alluding to the carrot-and-stick approach. The first mark indicated, “Welcome to the Connecticut section of the Appalachian Trail,” and the second stipulated, “Camping permitted only at designated sites.”

He planned to arrive in Kent by afternoon, which would allow him to complete his errands. The best part, he considered, was dining at Fife’n Drum. He possessed intimate familiarity with the location because of his years of residing in Manhattan.

Beyond the namesake elevation, the route descended toward the Ten Mile River. Despite its brevity, fording was prohibited by the powerful current. The trail wound along the right bank, the red metallic bridge standing out where the waters merged with the Housatonic River. Violent whirlpools formed in the water, their unsettling sound a true test for even the most proficient kayaker.

Afterward, the path went north, beside the Housatonic River’s upstream flow.

A house perched on an escarpment piqued the curiosity of the hiker. On a steep hill stood the three-story building with the dwelling parts, and the garage opened onto a flat plateau. Rather than a base, the edifice was constructed on poles, giving the impression that it was airborne. The magnificent residence exemplified the wealth of Connecticut, a state recognized for having the highest per capita income in the nation.

Where the river crossed a narrow, two anglers cast their lines into a natural pool carved into the black rock bed. Waffle Print wished them well, his words as sweet as syrup.

Bull’s Bridge was a prominent feature on the Housatonic River. The gangway — a single-lane wooden covered structure — appeared like a giant rectangular box. Despite its being an eyesore, it offered protection from the storms and the natural environment. The operational duration of an uncovered bridge rarely exceeds fifteen years. A roofed structure provided eighty annum of use.

He looked again at the container and mumbled, “Efficiency has killed aesthetics.”

The path ascended towards Schaghticoke Mountain, veering south for a considerable distance to bypass a difficult, rocky area.

At Indian Rocks, the view extended to the Catskills to the West. On the New York State border sits the Schaghticoke Reservation, a mere four hundred acres.

The name comes from the Algonquian language and signifies “where the river forks.”

In 1736, the Connecticut colony’s general assembly granted the tribe the most inhospitable piece of land. After its population dwindled and departed, the reserve became a wilderness habitat for timber and copper rattlesnakes.

The path wound its way along a ridge overlooking the Housatonic River. Mount Algo marked the end of the crest, which then dropped to the Macedonian Brook.

On the sandy shore of the creek, Waffle Print re-established his campsite in the identical location he had chosen before. The quick dip in the sunlit stream rejuvenated him. He desired to look presentable, hoping the affluent residents of Kent, a mile from here, would accept him.

At the town’s entrance, girls played a soccer match at the recent stadium.

While at the laundry, he met two fifteen-year-old girls who attended the new boarding school. One originated in Rhode Island, and the other in Texas.

Their apparent pride led him to be direct.

“How much is the tuition here?” he asked.

“Forty-eight grand,” the Texan girl replied, unfazed.

The price tag, 10% greater than the national average household income, did not factor in laundry and additional expenditures.

The girls, identifying his French origin, shared their European tour experiences. Since they were not yet grown, they had visited more cities in Europe than he, their elder, had. The Texan girl traveled to France twice.

“Everything is possible, and the world’s their oyster,” he ruminated while observing their flirtatious stance.

The proprietor of the laundromat disrupted the inspiring conversation between the two young women and the foreigner.

“No shirt, no service,” he snapped.

Waffle Print stated, “I don’t have extra clothes,” assuming the man knew he was a trekker.

With a frown, the intolerant individual repeated the rule to him.

“Got any old T-shirts for hikers using your laundry?” he asked.

During the men’s heated dispute, the high school girls chuckled. The owner, aware of having lost the young women’s support, retreated to his office.

Socialites flocked to Kent, a two-hour drive from New York, particularly during the leaf-peeping season. However, the additional wealth provided by the boarding school disrupted the familiar Kent he had known. Sweaty hikers had become a nuisance, similar to beggars.

Waffle Print, still rattled by his laundry experience, discovered the town council planned to reroute the Appalachian Trail, moving it further away.

The tourists wearing sunglasses strutted down Main Street with a swagger. Sunshades were not needed in the late October afternoon.

The image of the frosty morning on the trail prompted Waffle Print to purchase polar gloves, their soft texture a comfort in the chill, at the Outfitter Shop.

“These parts are a huge improvement over my scuba mitts,” he mused.

At 5 p.m., he entered the Fife’n Drum, being the first customer. Given the choice, he chose a table near the chimney. The tables soon filled with parents visiting their daughters on the weekend.

He selected both a lamb shank and a striped bass as his entrees. Both were mediocre, and the meat was not warm. The server gave him another glass of wine as compensation. In his regular busy manner, he told him that three hundred customers got service in the restaurant on Saturday nights.

He would have sipped the third drink under normal conditions. But the lengthy queuing for a table caused him to finish his alcoholic beverage while watching the crowd at the bar.

Humphrey Bogart, the actor, is credited with saying, “If Stalin, Truman, and everyone else in the world had three drinks right now, we’d all loosen up and we wouldn’t need the United Nations.” A consensus exists that the quote started around 1950, a time of the performer’s fame for liking alcohol and uttering impolite statements on living and governance.

Waffle Print, on his way back to his tent, couldn’t help but feel nostalgic, reflecting, “Kent was a better destination in the twentieth century.”

BIO

The author is a retired French diplomat (1981-2017).