Fort Barton Woods

Fort Barton Woods

Preface

Through a reflection on my life and extensive pursuing through my notebook and semester writings, I have decided to make my final project a focus on a place known as Fort Barton. While I feel I have many interesting life memories to tell, they feel a bit cliché to me. How many times can a reader hear a story of a life threatening car accident or a intensive hospital stay? So thus, I have decided to focus on a treasured place in my life known as Fort Barton Woods. I was actually surprised to realize I have such a strong connection to this place, but I feel it is due to the representation this place has as my childhood, innocence and freedom. It was also fitting to reflect on this place as another chapter in my life comes to a close. This piece allowed me to look back on many special aspects of my childhood, at times I even started crying as I was reflecting on my friendship with my still best friend Alyssa, that I mention in the piece. Over time this piece grew to have more and more personal meaning. Fort Barton is one of the connections to my childhood home that I lived in for the first 20 years of my life. We no longer own the house and it is a place my family and I miss very much.

I feel my piece reflects both Momaday and Kaysen, and perhaps even Wolff. I feel I have a connection to Momaday due to my piece’s focus on a place. Like Momaday my place holds spiritual meaning in my heart. I was influenced by Kaysen’s style of writing as I told random stories that all connected back to Fort Barton, much like she did when she wrote about her time in McLean. Wolff also could be seen in my piece as he also tells stories that are seemingly random but important to his childhood. Above all, this class made me understand that autobiographical writing does not have a specific formula. An autobiographical text is defined by the author and the way in which they wish to personally reflect on their life.

As I graduate I will continue to reflect on not only my college years but the events that lead me to where I am now. My reflection on Fort Barton is only a piece of my self introspection. While I ultimately hope a reader enjoys it, I have personally enjoyed the reflection on this beloved place.

Fort Barton

When I was a stickily young girl, with hair barely to my ears, my legs would begin to burn within the first five feet of the initial ascent to Fort Barton. My first known memories of this menacing ascent up to Fort Barton put me at age six or seven. However I know that I have been exploring the vast expanse that Fort Barton is, since I was much younger.

While I do not have any explicit recollection of my first trip to Fort Barton, my mother tells me it was sometime in the summer of 1990. This summer would be prove to be a major milestone in the next 20 years of my life, as our family had just moved to Tiverton, RI and into our home on Highland road. Our location on Highland road would shape the next twenty years of the our lives. Fort Barton would become intwined in our family’s history. Its close proximity, less than a mile from my childhood home, would mean that as I transformed over the course of my childhood, I too would watch Fort Barton transform, not only in the physical sense but in the ways it became involved in my life. First by being a place that I was often dragged and then evolving to a place that I would come to find peace and escape.

Up There

The first part of the climb, to the tower known as Fort Barton, is a steep paved hill. This path, almost more reminiscent of a driveway, was only the beginning of the tiresome trek up to the tower. On the side of this path there were a series of stone markers. Truly, these markers were signs welcoming guests to Fort Barton Woods and the Revolutionary War Redoubt. However to me, I saw the signs as markers of how close to the top of the hill I was getting. This path winds up, and up, with a great bend in the middle were you can no longer see what is coming next. To a new comer, they are unaware that behind that bend, there stood another grassy hill and two sets of expansive staircases to be conquered. Just as you felt your lungs had recovered at the top of the long and winding path, your tired body was treated to another steep staircase and the seemingly 1000 steps to the top of the tower.

At the young age of six or seven, when I saw the trek up to Fort Barton more like a trek to Mt. Everest, I would beg to be picked up, scolded when I whined to stop, and left behind when I stood still in protest, refusing to go any further. The older I got, the longer it took before the burning in my legs set in. The mountain of Fort Barton grew less difficult to climb. The older I got, the more I craved the independence to climb the tower on my own, venture into the woods without supervision and stand in the graveyard filled with terror.

Girl Scouts

First I started as the beginner, the Daisy scout. Then somehow in third grade, through following the seemingly strict guidelines, and the random tasks required, I advanced in the ranks, to the Brownie Scout. For this momentous achievement, the girl scouts of troop 189, would travel up the hill from Fort Barton school up into Fort Barton Woods, for both a celebration and a civil duty. Instead of one of our traditional meetings in the confines of the school’s basement, we would be treated to a picnic in the woods. However there was a catch, before we could feast on the delectable treats our mothers were to pack, we had to pick up trash throughout the woods. Sure, it did not seem like our leaders were asking to much of us at the time. In fact all of the girls in our troop were perfectly excited for the change of pace. We would not have to spend the afternoon cooped up having our meetings in a place that resembled the common areas of a minimum security prison. However for me this day spent in Fort Barton woods would forever tarnish my impression of girl scouts and the associations I made with trash collection.

The day of the celebration, my fellow girl scouts and I left the basement jumping and jovial for our afternoon in the woods. Our picnic was packed, and their was much chatter about what every girls’ mother had packed. Among the highlights of the sweet treats were dirt cups, cupcakes, and tea sandwiches. As we marched up the hill, we sang songs with contagious excitement. When we arrived at the top of the multiple hills, the trash bags and gloves were distributed so we could begin our collection of the trash littering the tower area and nearby woods. When it was my turn to receive latex gloves, our troop leader realized that she was short a pair. For an instant there was a part of me that was elated, thinking that I would be exempt from traipsing around picking up discarded garbage. However this jubilation quickly subsided when my troop leader decided that I would have to follow around another girl, shadowing her every step of the way with a trash bag. While I did not like the idea of giving up my independence of collecting trash on my own terms, I was satisfied that I would not actually be handling the trash.

After a few ground rules recited by our troop leader, my partner and I set out down the rocky path winding around the tower. At first, all of the girls eagerly sought out pieces of trash discarded in the lush greenery of the surrounding woods. We were not allowed to wander far, and especially not down the uneven rocky path that lead into the depths of the woods. After a short while of meandering around the hills surrounding the tower, our momentum slowed. For one reason or another, my trash collecting partner and I decided that we would sit down and take a rest from our collection duties. As we sat there, picking blades of grass and chatting about something, now unmemorable, we were oblivious to our surroundings. However this was all about to change.

Mere moments after our rest began, we were up screaming and running. The trash bag was forgotten and we were on our feet, tripping over ourselves and running from that dastardly sight. I will never forget the terror that ensued after what we spotted in the grass. We bolted and sought the shelter of a high bolder. We both realized that we were crying hard, nearly sobbing. Personally, I was shocked and disgusted. Today after consulting various sources and recounting specific attributes of that terrifying being, I can say with great certainty that it was Garter snake. I felt vulnerable and suspicious that snake was going to follow and perhaps attack me. The yellow, green and brown stripes of that slinking body, approaching me on the grass, will forever be engrained in my memory. Even now when someone mentions a snake, I instantly picture the one I spotted on the that day and am disturbed.

The specific memories of the celebration that day begin and end with my encounter of the Garter snake. For days I was suspicious when I went outside. I walked with great care and was constantly checking my surroundings. Even at night and inside the protective confines of my house, I was fearful.

Sometime shortly after this day, I decided girl scouts was no longer for me. My experience with that terrifying snake certainly had something to do with my reasons for quitting, but I am sure I rattled off various other reasons for bidding farewell to a life of scouting. Today, my fear for snakes remains. I step cautiously in grassy areas and forever remember my close encounter with that snake in Fort Barton.

Poison Ivy

Boomer, my family’s golden retriever, adored chasing tennis balls. As faithful owners, we relished in throwing a tennis ball down Fort Barton’s trails and watching as Boomer bounded to catch them in her mouth. Occasionally the unpredictable trajectory of Boomer’s tennis ball would have it flying off the marked trail and into the uncharted woods surrounding the path. Typically it was my Dad’s role to find the missing tennis ball. However on this early summer day, following my fifth grade year, I was the one to find Boomer’s ball off in the woods. Of course, my Dad hovered over my shoulder and watched as I navigated the unkempt off-trail area.

Just as I spotted Boomer’s ball, my Dad reminded me to be careful of the poison ivy that was known to grow in the woods. I was well versed in identifying the red and green leaves of poison ivy and knew to avoid touching it. My knowledge of poison ivy was well instilled in me as my Dad was frequently having bad allergic reactions to the plant. While nothing was out of the ordinary that day, when I woke up the next morning I was in for a surprise.

Immediately upon waking, my face and eyes itched. When I looked in the mirror my face glowed shiny. Miniature bumps were forming on my right eyelid and cheek. This was not a ideal morning to wake up like this. The next day, I was to depart for overnight camp for a week and my personal appearance was on the track to continually deteriorate, as my reaction to the poison ivy worsened.

When I emerged downstairs, it was almost as if my Dad had already seen my face. Upon spotting the glistening red bumps, my Dad launched into a lecture about poison ivy; surely it had been contracted the previous day while fetching Boomer’s ball of the trail. Quickly my Mom saved me from my Dad’s lecture and came swarming in with an arsenal of over-the-counter drugs, ready to combat the emerging poison ivy on my face.

After the preventative measures were taken, I continued my preparations for camp. My two best friends arrived for dinner and we excitedly discussed camp and all the adventures we would be having together over the next week.

After a restless night of sleep, I awoke to find a horrifying reflection in the mirror. As I looked through one eye, I saw that my right eye had swelled so much, that it was now shut. My face burned a deep red, and the miniature bumps had grown in size. Instinctively I was devastated, this was not a way I wanted to be starting my first day at sleep away camp.

Sure enough my instincts proved to be right. When I arrived at camp later that morning I was quickly sent away. In fact, the camp officials recommended that I be taken to the hospital. This devastated me. I had been looking forward to camp for months and now I had to watch my best friends head off for the fun without me.

While the first couple weeks of that summer were marked by my ordeals with poison ivy and my rejection from camp, that summer was also marked by the adventures I had in Fort Barton. While my friends were at camp I made new discoveries within Fort Barton. My dad showed me the waterfall I had lusted after for so long. We spent hours sitting on the rocks on the bubbly river while my Dad educated me on the Torrey’s and the battles they fought in the area surrounding us.

When my friends came back from camp I was a wealth of knowledge. When we were all reunited back in the woods, I regurgitated the stories my Dad had shared with me. While I was envious of of their time at camp, they were envious of my new found discoveries within the woods.

Peace

As I got older, Fort Barton transformed from a place of adventure seeking into a place I sought out to find serenity and escape. My best friend Alyssa and I often walked the woods of Fort Barton telling our stories amongst those trees that bore stories of the Revolutionary War. Sometimes we would plan a lavish picnic or bring along her dog for a playmate, but mostly we just sought about the peaceful quiet of the woods. We would climb the steep path, as we had done for years on end, and walk for hours exploring our favorite hidden spots within the trails. We would climb up the stairs to the top of the tower and sigh as we took in our surroundings. We would drink in the view and marvel how much of the ocean we could see on a clear day. We would listen to the birds chirp, the silence of nature, and hope to follow the right path that lead to the waterfall.

Within Fort Barton we not only found the historical evidence of an infamous war, we found the historical evidence of her family. Like us, Alyssa’s mom had grown up exploring the woods of Fort Barton. When we followed the right trail, perhaps the blue dot, we would find ourselves sitting on the same picnic table that her mother had decades before. We would run our hands over the engraving of her initials and image what she was doing out here as a young girl.

I can not remember a time were I was not absolutely content to be walking those woods with Alyssa. While we may have changed over the years our adoration for Fort Barton and friendship always remained strong. Fort Barton will forever hold the enchantment I felt all through my childhood. I long for the mental clarity that only a walk through those woods could give me. I long to breathe in that air and remember the times before. I long to go back and explore Fort Barton all over again.