Well, it happened. New England finally cooled down. With temperatures in the upper-70s and the dew point in recession, summer is finally starting to feel like summer has historically felt. And given the heat and humidity we’ve endured to get here, the vibe in Boston lately has been like the liberation of France. Last night, I went for a run around Jamaica Pond and found that I still had enough gas in the tank to sprint over to Arnold Arboretum just in time to catch the pink glow of a sunset from the Willow Path. This morning, I walked from my house to the Seaport, fueled by two rosemary bagels. It felt amazing to take a long walk outdoors again. And so, with the near future looking temperate, I want to tell you about one of the greatest long walks in New England.

I first learned about the Berkshire County High Road while visiting my friend Mike McGinn in the hilltowns of Western Mass. (As top brass of America Walks, Mike is uniquely tapped into the foot travel beat.) The concept is tantalizingly yet simple: Imagine a trail running along the spine of the Berkshires, from Williamstown to Great Barrington. Now imagine if that trail were to go through Pittsfield, Lenox, Adams, and other towns nestled within the mountains. Finally, picture a trail that visits high peaks, bogs, and dreamy woodlands, while remaining relatively gentle and never reaching White Mountain grade steepness. That’s what the High Road is: a town-to-countryside long trail that’s designed not to brutalize, but to enchant. And with the trail winding through villages, opportunities to connect to transit, restaurants, and hotels are vast.

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Here’s a thought exercise. You’ve just bought a prime oceanfront property on the north shore of Massachusetts (you’re rich) but there’s a catch. Some mornings, when you just want to sit alone on your deck, stare at the whitecaps of Davy Jones’ Locker, and mournfully ruminate about Proustian memories from a lost childhood, there are other people in your peripheral vision. They’re hiking along a path that runs past your house—a coastal trail through rocks and rosa rugosa bushes that skirts backyards and is open to the public. The presence of these hikers disrupts your maritime brooding.

So….do you let them be? Or do you try and get the coastal path shut down?

I’d like to think that most of us would choose the first option, happily or begrudgingly. But in the quiet north shore town of Rockport, Mass., a beloved piece of recreational infrastructure is in serious danger of being partially closed off to the general public.

The endangered gem is the Atlantic Path, a dreamlike little trail that wanders north from Pigeon Cove to Andrew’s Woods along Rockport’s craggy shores. Boston Globe staff reporter Billy Baker recently wrote a fascinating story about the history of the public path, which runs across the edge of private properties thanks to an 1887 state provision that preserves public access to the coastal rocks and ledges here. In a state where almost 90% of the coastline is privatized and inaccessible to the unwashed masses, the Atlantic Path is kind of a miracle. For decades, Atlantic Path hikers and the adjacent homeowners have led a peaceful coexistence. (The path can be reached by tiny spur trails that run between residents’ houses and nearby streets.) But today, a lawyer who lives along the path at Andrews Point is attempting to torpedo that truce.

This lawyer, whom I’m not going to name for reasons that you’ll soon understand, has sued the Town of Rockport and the state, on the premise that all of the people who use the Atlantic Path for hiking, fishing, dog-walking and birding are making her feel like “a stranger in her own home.” The goal seems straightforward: strong-arm the town or the state into closing off the Andrew’s Point portion of the Atlantic Path. And while this lawyer is something of an outlier among Rockport residents (several of whom are really pissed off about this) her legal campaign does reflect a serious vulnerability of public paths that run across private property. As Baker explains in his Globe story, these paths can be ruined by rich homeowners who have too much time and money on their hands, because the towns often lack the resources to fight back.

A few years ago, a portion of the Atlantic Path near Phillips Avenue was relocated from the coastal ledges to the rocks below, when a homeowner complained that the path was worsening the erosion around their stone wall. Rockport residents continued to use the original path until one day, a few hikers ran into newly-installed bushes that forced a diversion down to the rocks. The town didn’t investigate this development, and the mostly-gentle path now includes a detour that requires scrambling across uneven, stony surfaces that can get quite slippery. All it took was one homeowner to compromise the integrity of the Atlantic Path. And if the lawyer at Andrews Point has her way, history could soon repeat itself, further disfiguring the path’s original route.

All of which is a roundabout way of saying that right after reading Billy Baker’s story about the Atlantic Path, I knew that I had to get to Rockport and check this thing out.

While I still could.

Due to its unique nature as a public path across mostly private properties, the Atlantic Path is kind of tricky to locate if you’re searching for maps and trail information. But thanks to the Friends of Andrews Woods, I was able to find an aerial view of the trail route before hitting the road for Rockport on a broiling morning in late June. (Maps for trails like the Atlantic Path are pretty important, so that you can avoid wandering into someone’s backyard.) The trail heads north from Cathedral Avenue, in the shadow of an oceanside inn called The Emerson, and you have two access options. You can drive to Rockport, park on Curtis Street, and walk a short distance to the trailhead. Or you can take the MBTA commuter rail to the Rockport train station and walk to the Atlantic Path from there via Granite Street. (1.8 miles each way, with regular sidewalk.)

The Atlantic Path’s south trailhead actually shows up on Google Maps as a location, and when I arrived there, liberally coated in sunblock (sun + a reflective ocean = extra crispy), I immediately detected signs of public trail use and affection. The path sets off through an opening in a stone wall, atop which you’ll find two bunny statues that are currently sporting stars-and-spangles bow-ties. A nearby metal sign that reads “Public Foot Path” and a thin dirt path disappears into bushes, tall grass, and rocks of the Rockport shoreline. The waves were crashing, the wind was keeping the bugs away, and I was ready to court danger. So I set off, heading north to Andrew’s Point.

It only took three minutes for the initial serenity of the path to be disrupted by some elemental challenges, which may or may not have been deliberately cultivated. First, I emerged from a grove of vegetation to find that a clear-cut section of the Atlantic Path had been partially flooded. I squelched across the sodden lawn, using some stepping stones to avoid total footwear saturation. But in the next corridor of plants, I found something that made me smile: a hiker “rest area” where one of the adjacent homeowners had demarcated a shady little oasis amid twisted trees and flowers.

The milk of human kindness was sweet but short-lived, as the path soon led me to a spot where I was required to pick my way down a steep, eroded drop-off onto the seaside rocks below the grassier ledges. As much as I enjoyed the next 20 minutes of hopping from rock to rock and scaling slabbier areas of stone that resembled a pile of tortillas, this was a decidedly different experience than walking along the earlier, more level pathway: an experience that would be out of reach for hikers with mobility limitations, balance issues, etc. Blue arrows painted on the rocks showed me the way, only to disappear later. Once again, I wondered: Did this happen naturally?

As the trail returned to the greener ledge for a while, I checked my map and realized that I was getting close to Andrews Point: the ornery lawyer’s turf! My entrance to the forbidden zone kicked off with a red, angry-looking “PRIVATE PROPERTY” sign that instructed Atlantic Path users to “keep moving.” This was easier said than done, as the trail now entered a jumble of loose boulders—some of which required two hands to monkey over. As I picked my way through the rocks, I looked to my left toward the large houses that abutted the path. I instantly recognized the lawyer’s coastal citadel from a photo that ran with the Globe story, and to my relief, the deck looked empty.

As I kept scrambling along the trail, I imagined my movements being tracked through a set of binoculars from the second floor window. (If I lived in any other state, I might have imagined a rifle scope instead.) Knowing that my presence here was unwanted but protected by the law added a bit of a thrill to the hike. But when I took a rest atop one of the boulders, I found it hard to relax and take in the killer view of the Atlantic. So I kept moving, aiming for the relative safe harbor of Alan’s Beach, just up ahead.

After schlepping my way over the final rock jumble and arriving there, I was greeted by two women walking their dogs in the direction of Andrews Point. We exchanged pleasantries and commented on the high humidity. There was no way the dogs could have handled the boulders along the point, so the women veered right and headed inland toward Phillips Avenue, on one of the spur paths that offers access to the Atlantic Path. I sat down on a trailside bench, took a couple of minutes to admire the stony little cove that formed a raggedy beach, and decided to begin my own return journey. I was tempted to continue to Andrews Woods, but between the heat, the terrain I had navigated, and the creeping sensation of being monitored, I was beat.

Backtracking toward Curtis Street, where I had parked, I expected to spend the walk stewing about how the misanthropic whims of one crabby property owner can spoil something for everyone else. But on several lawns along the road, I noticed blue signs that read “SAVE THE ATLANTIC PATH.” These signs were a crucial reminder that for all the land-grabbing lawyers and their counterparts, there are a lot of other people who believe in the notion of common good: even when it nudges up against their property lines. And if our legal system fails to uphold common goods like the Atlantic Path—which it may—I think we can expect those people people to respond by continuing to walk the path, regardless of local laws or physical obstructions. The path has survived this long because it speaks to something inside many of us: something that just feels right. No level of wealth or leverage can scrub that out of our shared consciousness.

The Atlantic Path
Hike distance: 2-ish mile loop 
Elevation gain: Less than 50 feet
CLICK HERE for a trail map

It’s Beach Read Season and since I’m #26 on the Boston Public Library waitlist for TJ Newman’s Drowning (a plane crashes into the Pacific, sinks 200 feet, and teeters on the edge of an undersea cliff!!!) I’ve been availing myself of overlooked thrillers. Upon the recommendation of a fellow writer, I picked up The White Road, by Sarah Lotz, which belongs to the uber-niche “polar thriller/horror” genre. The premise: an outdoor adventure influencer barely escapes death on an ill-conceived spelunking trip, and tries to recover by climbing Mount Everest (just go with it.) But something from the cave—something even more malignant than trauma—may have followed him to the slopes of the world’s tallest peak. Suffice it to say, I’m loving this, and I’d also love to know if anyone here has any recommendations for thrillers that make use of outdoor settings. It’s an under-utilized subgenre of the thriller market, and I have a bottomless appetite. Also, Lotz’s most recent book, The Impossible (a more romantic adventure) is being adapted into a movie by Sian Heder, the director of CODA, so you might as well get in on the action and pick up one of Lotz’s books today, before she blows up.

Sitting down to write up my hike yesterday, I’m reminded of coyotes in New York City. Through thin bands of wilderness and other such out-of-the-way corridors and alleys, coyotes were able to make their way from western prairies to Central Park. Now, they are rarely noticed but always there, somewhere in the shadows, traversing by some route unknown to us. A wilderness right there in the urban. 

“People often see the wilderness and the cities as two completely different things,” observed one researcher with the Gotham Coyote Project. “It’s crossovers like these that remind us that these landscapes are actually two neighboring parts of the same ecosystem.”

Hiking the East Side Trail in Worcester, Mass. feels very much like taking the route of a coyote. You are never more than a football field away from a road or an apartment building or a business, but over its entire ~3.5 mile stretch, you’re left with the feeling that you’ve traversed a wilderness—one a city resident could pass by for a lifetime and never really see.

Appropriate to the name, the hike is through the “East Side” of Worcester, a mid-sized, working class city with the usual problems of such a place. The East Side, especially where this trail bisects it, is among the more economically depressed areas of an economically depressed city. As such, it’s worth a disclaimer that this hike is not for the clutcher of pearls. You will very likely pass people living in tents or the evidence of it. There’s broken glass and there’s trash. There’s graffiti. There is no grand payoff vista a la a mountain peak but there is a lot of beauty to take in if you’re open to the taking.

About 2:30 p.m. Sunday I parked my car on Shrewsbury Street and walked through the arch of twin stone lions that serves as a gateway to Christoforo Columbo Park (I know...) and marks the start of the East Side Trail.

It was cold and rainy and this particular trail was one of the few in Worcester I’d never done. Something about it always stopped me. There’s no loop to it. It involves crossing heavy traffic. Some of the trail is just a sidewalk. And it honestly seemed a little daunting. Colin Novick of the Greater Worcester Land Trust described it to me as “the most challenging three-mile trail in Worcester.” 

“I think it is a great trail for conditioning, but mostly I am amazed at how close to remote you can be in the heart of the City on the built up East Side,” said Novick. “Pieces of that trail let you lose yourself in the woods.”

The conditioning element was immediately apparent. After a quick walk from the lions past a spray park and amphitheater to the woods on the park’s border, a blue trail marker spray-painted on a little jersey barrier takes you immediately up a several-hundred foot elevation climb. It is brutal, frankly. There are no switchbacks. At times it features the sort of thick leaf cover that makes it even more difficult and suggests it doesn’t get hiked a lot. You go straight up the side of Bell Hill to an old access road, where you then have to hop another barrier the style of which has not been seen for decades, similarly marked with spray paint, and continue the steep ascent. The barrier is all tagged up as are a lot of features on this hike. On the back of the barrier, I noticed a little message. I stopped, panting and sweating, to type it out.

“*fact* these woods and trails contain spirits that throw rocks and disguise there voices of the same voice of your loved ones. By any means you are never alone at any time of any day. You have been warned. This is not a joke.”

And below it a rejoinder: “Ha ha a hoe / slut I think not”

Welp, good thing I’m doing this alone, I thought. 

From there to the top of Bell Hill it wasn’t so much spirits in the woods as it was real people, or the evidence of real people having been there prior. A fire pit and a pillow torn and spilling its fluffy guts, and an abandoned tent site and then two active ones. In the second I heard someone inside, talking on the phone as I passed quietly. 

At the summit there was a clearing with an old stone foundation all tagged up and beyond it a soccer field: a couple empty cases of beer the only suggestion of a human presence. No nets on the goals, just a tattered sweatshirt ominously tied to one of the goal posts. This is a forgotten place, I thought, but not some ancient ruin. Like it was forgotten in the past 10 years.

A short walk down from the summit takes you to Belmont Street, or Rt. 9, a busy street carrying traffic from the east into the downtown. Though there’s a crosswalk, caution is required and running is advised. 

For a short while, the hike is just a sidewalk, until you notice boulder on the side of the walkway with a blue marker on it. I climbed up and just like that I was back in the woods.

The Rte. 9 traffic now whirring some 20 or so feet beneath me, I hiked deeper into the woods. This is where I first thought about the coyotes in Central Park. How a moment ago I was in a distinctly urban place and now I am safely back in some patch of woods I’d never before noticed. 

After a short stretch, the trail takes you along the ridgeline of an old quarry, the rock faces of which are tagged with all sorts of colorful spray paint art and the base filled with the evidence of young kids partying and other people simply living. A metal folding chair next to a fire pit. 

I’d advise keeping a trail map or app handy as there are dozens of options for where to go next. I opted for the “ghost trail” because duh. Ghosts. And I began following the white markers through Green Hill Park. The Ghost Trail goes through the woods for a short time before taking you through the park itself. Trail markers can be found on cement paths and light poles for a baseball field. As I searched out and followed these trail markers, like little easter eggs in a space not usually experienced as a trail, I noticed a deer across the street, heading in the direction I was. Wilderness, right in the urban. 

In these woods, which border the grounds of the old Worcester State Hospital (of the One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest variety) the hike followed a rather ornate and large stone wall, leading eventually to some circular cement foundation in a field. On top of it now was not a building but rather a fire pit, stacked and ready to go, and a crude stone bench. The setting for some future ritual and/or party.

From here I hopped on the Worcester State Hospital Cart Trail, an old access road of a trail, spooky and pleasant at the same time. It took me past a cliff where I heard the caw of a falcon then looked up to see it floating up there on some updraft quite majestically. Mixed with police sirens and highway noise in the background, the crystal clear caw was striking. I took a minute there to soak in the sight. 

Following the trail for a time led to a tall grass field adjacent the Green Hill Golf Course. As I walked into the field that same falcon soared over my head maybe 15 feet up. I fumbled for my phone like an idiot and didn’t get it in time. It disappeared into the dense woods bordering the field. Above the treeline a small plane was dragging a purple UNIBANK ad. A reminder of the human layer of the city while enmeshed in a deeper layer where the wild things happen unnoticed.    

Unlike a hike in the proper wilderness, this hike is a series of little decisions. There are dozens of trails, both marked and otherwise, which cut through the parks and tracts of undeveloped land the overall “East Side Trail” follows. There are dozens of ways to complete the same route, and the AllTrails app proves especially handy. Without it I would have been very confused. 

From the field by the golf course, the hike takes you through a swamp and follows the Coal Mine Brook, a small and delightfully babbling feature, straight to the point where it dumps out into Lake Quinsigamond. But not before it goes under a four-lane highway and you have to go over it. No crosswalk. While I might have jogged across Rte 9 earlier in this hike, I sprinted across this one. Not fun. 

Once on the other side of the road, the trail takes you to the brook’s culvert, which has some delightful graffiti. And, as seems to be the case on many Worcester hikes, there’s an unexplainable totem! Gotta have the unexplainable totem. We love em, folks.

The trail ends at the shore of Lake Quinsigamond. A little patch of dirty beach with fire pits under “no fires” signs and trash and a wooden dining room table chair right on the bank of the lake. A perfect place to sit and reflect on the bizarre and winding and distinctly urban wilderness the East Side Trail presents.

THE EAST SIDE TRAIL (northbound to Lake Quinsigamond)
Hike distance: 3.6 miles
Elevation gain: 381 feet
CLICK HERE for a trail map

THE EAST SIDE TRAIL (southbound to Christoforo Columbo Park)
Hike distance: 3.6 miles
Elevation gain: 430 feet
CLICK HERE for a trail map

You can hike the East Side Trail as a ~7.2 mile out-and-back hike OR you can use Worcester Regional Transit Authority buses to return to your point of origin. But be aware that this may take nearly as long as simply hiking back. (We’ve both tried it.)