The Strangest Farm on Earth

An ode to town pride in Southern NH

In the opening scene of John Wick 3, Keanu Reeves finds himself cornered in the stacks of the New York Public Library by an assassin the size of Nikola Jokić. So what does our man do? He plucks a hardcover book from the nearest shelf and he manages to dispatch the goon with it. This sort of thing recurs throughout the movie. Less than 10 minutes after the opener, Reeves is chased into a horse stable by more henchmen and he gives one of the stallions a slap on the ass—prompting the horse to back-kick one of Reeves’ pursuers right in the kisser (with an audible crunch.) In an interview with the great film critic Mark Kermode, Reeves describes these delectable moments as seizing “Weapons Of Opportunity.” Whatever happens to be on hand.

I like to take this approach to hiking; especially in winter, when biting air and slippery roads impose limitations on where we can roam. If I’m traveling for work and staying at a hotel in some unfamiliar city, I’ll look at Google Maps or AllTrails and search for walkable paths within a one mile radius of the space. And if I’m running a few errands and I have an hour or two of wiggle room—and the hiker’s itch—I’ll do the same thing. Once I find a prospect, be it a full-on park or a designated pedestrian route, I tend to go in blind. Why ruin the surprise of stumbling upon a beautiful ramble? If the hike turns out to be a dud, you can bail without having spent much time and energy. But more often, I’ve found that Hikes Of Opportunity yield odder and beguiling things.

On a crack-your-lips Saturday last January, I drove up to a strip mall in Hudson, New Hampshire to sell an old backpack to somebody from Facebook Marketplace. The motivation for the trip was purely business at first—monetizing something that had been squashed into the back of my closet for a decade. But once I had pocketed the greenbacks, it was only 9:30am. And I felt like kind of a bozo to have driven 43 miles with no plans beyond offloading a backpack. I had crossed into New Hampshire: the goddamn Granite State. I was dressed properly for the punishing winter conditions. And it would have been a waste to have not spent any time poking around outside.

This is how I found Benson Park, a 166-acre wooded recreation zone, located directly across the road from the strip mall. (It was hidden from sight by a row of condos.) As my car crunched into the icy parking lot, which was mostly empty that day, I assumed that I would find the sort of tasteful features that the word “park” usually suggests—wandering paths, stately rows of arbors, and a statue or two. Little did I realize that in fact, I was stepping into a shrine for something much more bizarre. I was about to discover why Benson Park was once referred to as “The Strangest Farm on Earth.”