By Rit Carter

Since the inception of The Bristol Edition, I’ve been fortunate to go on some interesting writing adventures.

I’ve driven to Paterson, N.J., and the Taconic Mountains in New York State twice to research Harry Jackson, a runaway slave that came to live in Bristol.

To experience the details, textures and grit of the city, I walked from one end of Bristol to the other.

I’ve flown over the city at an altitude of 1,500 ft to see the layers and walked in the footsteps of a Bristol seditionist and Bristol’s Ku Klux Klan of the 1920s to tell their stories.

And I cycled from my home in the northeast section of town to Massachusetts, so I could experience the state. (Unfortunately, that story remains unpublished because a portion of my notes are missing.)

This last Saturday, though, I added another escapade to my TBE portfolio–hiking Bristol’s Pigeon Hill.

Under a bright blue sky and temperatures in the low 70s, I had the pleasure of hiking the newest addition to Bristol’s stable of recreational facilities. Not only does it live up to and exceed the hype, but it may also have cured my writer’s block.

Allow me to explain.

In April, I did a presentation at the Bristol Historical Society regarding the 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic. Following the program, I found myself in a psychological hangover, decompressing, struggling to write and create.

At best, I’ve been going through the motions of tapping the keys hoping something cohesive would emerge. Nope, try again.

When that did not work, I hoped my ideas would write themselves. Surprise, surprise, that did not work either.

To climb out of this creative valley, Saturday morning, I set out for an adventure, but with no idea where. Armed with only my camera, notebook, backpack and water, I eventually landed at the entrance to Pigeon Hill on Shrub Road.

Due to my incessant need for sound, my trusty iPod tagged along, but once the hike got underway, we parted. Quickly, I discovered that the regenerating sounds of the forest were all I needed to keep me company. Alas, while I ventured up and down the trails, my iPod was sitting this one out at the bottom of my backpack.          

Maybe it was the leaf beds that lined the forest floor, mixed with the chirping birds, snapping twigs, and croaking Spring Pepper frogs. 

Or the meadow, known as Midfield, with its cord wood piled in the distance, or the creaking footbridges or the “The Step”, that was carved into a fallen White Pine tree that had fallen during a windstorm.

Or, was it the log steps leading up a hill or the region called the Vista, which provided an overview of the immediate area I had just threaded my way through?

Or, was it the vernal pool that I stopped and admired courtesy of a volunteer? The trees, sky and immediate surroundings were brilliantly reflected atop the habitat of rare plants and animals.

Vernal Pool along the Pigeon Hill trail. Photo | Rit Carter

Or, was it simply the symphony of silence that accompanied me in places along the 60-plus acres?

The answer will never be known to me because it never is just one event, but a series of unconnected events stitched together. Regardless, I do know that by the end of my 45-minute trek, I felt renewed and enlightened. In fact, within minutes of being reunited with my iPod and seated in my car in the parking lot, the opening and ending of this story were written.

Trail winding through Pigeon Hill. Photo | Rit Carter

The actual Pigeon Hill is the hill next to the entrance parking area and is a glacial esker. A portion of its treasures were lost decades ago due to mining and bulldozers.

If not for those that had the foresight and vision to preserve it the area could have become just another boring 150 units of housing. The folks that saved it from clear-cutting and woodchippers have been rightly commended by the community.

And so, too, should the mission-driven volunteers who are often overlooked. They are the boots on the ground, the nameless and faceless folks behind the scenes that toiled for hundreds of hours surveying the boundaries, carrying the logs, making the footbridges and creating the trails.

Bristol has the benefit of many parks, but if open spaces such as Pigeon Hill are not preserved and lost to development, there may come a time when the only place you will see an area like this in Bristol in 100 years is the Imagination Museum.

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