Dogtown Gloucester

I am reading and loving every bit of "Dogtown" by Elyssa East. It answered many questions and explained the taboo indifference I found in locals when I asked them about hiking around Dogtown Gloucester.
I first heard of it years ago when I was into trail running. I was looking for local trails and hiking areas, Dogtown was listed as an abandoned colonial settlement with winding and occasionally confusing trails. A couple of references mentioned old cellar holes and boulders with inspirational inscriptions: "Get A Job", "Help Mother", "Be Clean", "Never Try, Never Win", "If Work Stops, Values Decay" and 21 other nuggets of wisdom in an area formerly owned then donated by the wealthy Babson family. Roger Babson hired unemployed stone workers to carve those inscriptions on the boulders to uplift those downtrodden by the Depression.
There were a couple of sentences stating Dogtown was a refuge for freed slaves and those who were suspected of witchcraft. One article I came across said its last inhabitants were prostitutes, packs of wild dogs and aging former slaves. And then it emptied or died out, the houses fell to ruin and it's never been inhabited again---why???
The little I found on Dogtown made me want to research more and I marveled at why such an interesting place in a destination city on the North Shore was barely mentioned? There was one common theme in every article or reference guide regarding Dogtown: its trails are confusing, it's easy to get lost and you should never hike alone.
I worked at Addison Gilbert Hospital and had the opportunity to ask about Dogtown. Answers were vague, almost evasive, it bothered the good citizens of Gloucester to be asked about the place. People who live in Gloucester either don't go there or they don't go there anymore. The most specific thing I was told by a retired fisherman was that a lot of homeless people try to pitch tents in Dogtown but they are chased out by volunteer rangers. The cautionary warnings were less ominous for me after that, Dogtown had volunteer rangers! I had to find it.
I set out to do just that on a sunny spring day in 2004. I took my greyhound Sadie who loved trail walks. We drove around the downtown looking for signs but had no luck. I got the greyhound stare for the entire ride home implying I couldn't find my way out of a paper bag.
The following Saturday I enlisted my husband and his GPS to find it because it had become my quest. My feeling was that it was a fantastic secret for the locals, much like the Rockport quarries, and they want to keep the yuppie nit-wit day trippers out. We found it easily with the Garmin, we even stopped at the Dogtown bookstore along the way (see, we are yuppie nit-wits) but didn't find any trail maps or anyone who was remotely interested in our adventure.
The entrance was somewhat obscure, almost like pulling into a private driveway. There was a tall old brown National Parks-looking sign at the driveway that would have been way too easy to miss if we didn't have the GPS yelling, "Turn right! Turn right! Recalculating...." because we had to make a U-turn.
No real parking lot, we just pulled off the narrow drive and squeezed past a fire gate and we in.
There my enthusiasm dried up. The trail was a wide, soft grass that quickly narrowed to a rocky, rutted path flanked by briars, vines and tall weedy looking trees. It felt like the sun went behind the clouds and the wind quit when we entered the woods. It was fairly easy to see the narrow track but that was about it. No big friendly boulders, no scenic vistas of the ocean, it was a very dark, old place. Normally I let Sadie off her leash to run ahead as she pleases but that was not going to be the case here, I didn't want to lose her in these overgrown woods. Suddenly the warnings about Dogtown felt understated.
We hiked in for a bit. The trail never smoothed out and I could see how it might become confusing in the woods if you got turned around because there were few identifying markers. We tried a couple of side trails but they quickly ended or were blocked by downed trees and overgrown vines and bittersweet.
The place gave me the creeps. I did not want to lose sight of my husband, Dan or our youngest son Charlie who I kept telling to keep close, not to lag behind or go too far ahead. Dan looked at me like, "Why did you haul us out here if you're going to yell at us the whole time?" when I gave the 11th commandment that we stay on a trail together at all times.
We eventually came out to a little clearing where the trail widened and saw some cellar holes of the colonists. They were tiny, the houses must have been so small. The cellars themselves were caving in and I couldn't find any stone markers on the ground, not that I cared at that point. I wanted to get out of there. Crows were cawing overhead when we got to the cellar holes which shattered the eerie stillness of the woods in a jarring, almost threatening manner.
"So, ready to head back?" I asked cheerfully. Dan looked at me like I was crazy. "I've seen enough." I told him. "What about the carved boulders? The Whale's Jaw and Peter's Pulpit?" Those were all the marvels I regaled them with on our ride to Gloucester. They sounded scary and haunted now. I felt if I came onto a boulder with neatly carved letters that told me to use my head I'd collapse into a blubbering puddle of terror. I looked at Dan with the look he'd seen me give him in places like Las Vegas and shopping malls: "Get me the hell out of here."
"O.K.! Let's go!" Dan cheerfully called to Charlie who started protesting that we didn't get to see the big rocks I'd babbled about. "Next time, buddy, let's go!" and off we went, following what we were sure was the way we came until we rounded out on a marshy area.
I was one tick away from panic because the crows followed us, cawing and clacking away, they obviously knew we were going the wrong way and loved every minute of it. We stood looking around. I couldn't figure out where we had gone wrong, all the side trails from the one we were on were barely visible and very narrow, it seemed very unlikely that we'd mistakenly wander down one. Dan ran back about fifty yards looking all around for where two trails might have converged.
"Dan! Don't go too far without us!" I yelled while the crows cawed. Charlie asked, "Are we lost?" in a quiet voice and I felt stupid and awful for scaring him unnecessarily. Dan waved us back and we took a path that looked just like the path we had just taken. I felt relieved and silly, wondered why I let myself get like this after all my excitement to hike around Dogtown. We made a couple of turns and ended up at a different part of the marsh which seemed to further entertain those stupid crows cawing at us. Panic came flooding into me. I had no idea how we ended up on different trails because there was no sign of any turn-off on our way out to the cellar holes. We had no trail map to even guide us! There was one good thing: I could hear traffic when we were standing at the marsh (when the crows shut up). It sounded way off but I thought we could edge along the marsh until we came to a paved road and find our car from there. Dan said we should track back again because he was sure we just needed to go further up our second trail to get back to the first. I didn't want to say anything because if I did it would be something along the lines of, "We're all going to diiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeee!"
We did get out on our third try. I kept my eyes on Dan and a death grip on Charlie's hand praying that we weren't lost. The crows beleaguered us through the woods until we came to the clearing which opened up to the grass trail to a most welcomed sight, our car. There was not a hint of another human being anywhere around us in the two hours we spent wandering around Dogtown. No wonder those crows were so interested.
I found a trail map after that trip and was able to figure out where we got turned around and how we kept coming out to Goose Cove reservoir, not a marsh. I've continued sporadic research on Dogtown, mostly if I come across trail books on Eastern Massachusetts. I read Anita Diamant's kind of lame fictionalized history of Dogtown. It didn't give me any answers about its eeriness or insights to its past.
Elyssa East's book did. It is the key to the mystery and dark, dark past of the place. She is as inquisitive about Dogtown as she is thorough about finding answers. It's a great read that has both kept me up late reading it and given me chills and terrors.
I wonder what would have happened if I found it on the day I went alone with Sadie? I don't know if I'd be writing a whole different account or if I wouldn't be around to write anything at all?

"The Cycle Manifesto" is also my manifesto

The Cycle Chic Manifesto
We've been discussing for ages the composing of a manifesto regarding Cycling Chic. We coined the phrase, after all, so we thought it necessary to highlight what it's all about. As ever, with a hint of seriousness, a splash of poetry and a dash of playfulness.

With that said, we present to you The Copenhagen Cycle Chic Manifesto.

- I choose to cycle chic and, at every opportunity, I will choose Style over Speed.

- I embrace my responsibility to contribute visually to a more aesthetically pleasing urban landscape.

- I am aware that my mere prescence in said urban landscape will inspire others without me being labelled as a 'bicycle activist'.

- I will ride with grace, elegance and dignity.

- I will choose a bicycle that reflects my personality and style.

- I will, however, regard my bicycle as transport and as a mere supplement to my own personal style. Allowing my bike to upstage me is unacceptable.

- I will endeavour to ensure that the total value of my clothes always exceeds that of my bicycle.

- I will accessorize in accordance with the standards of a bicycle culture and acquire, where possible, a chain guard, kickstand, skirt guard, fenders, bell and basket.

- I will respect the traffic laws.

- I will refrain from wearing and owning any form of 'cycle wear'. The only exception being a bicycle helmet - if I choose to exercise my freedom of personal choice and wear one.

Quit ranting and do something real

Eve Ensler of the monologue that evidently comes from a specific female body part is on the radio and her rant about the strife of being a woman here and now just made me want to stuff cotten pierced with sharp tacks in my ears to make her go away.
Gosh, Eve, your shocking titles and annoying rants will really get you support and empathy across the board. It makes me think I should drive my car into the bank window because I don't have enough money.
There are ways of getting attention, ways of bringing about topics of note that are more effective than taking a completely unsavory, polarizing stand.
Well behaved women do make history and they have more followers, both male and female because they engage and encourage open thought.
Eve Ensler, your rantings preach to the choir and drive away the rest of the world.
Take it down a few notches, give my ears a break. And find a better body part to rant from, the visual is disgusting to me.