with the North American Continent. The result of this ancient collision was the uplift of the Taconics, a great range of mountains stretching from Newfoundland to Alabama. This era of geologic time is known as the Ordovician Period, named after the Ordovices, a Celtic people from the British Isles who were never conquered by the Romans. Scientists estimate these mountains were originally far higher than the Rocky Mountains are today and perhaps even rose to the heights of the Himalayas. This event is known as the Taconic Orogeny and preceded by almost one hundred million years the Acadian Orogeny that raised the Appalachian Mountains, caused by the collision of the African Continent against North America. This later upheaval, and succeeding geological events, supplanted most of the Taconics except for the narrow range that remains in parts of New England today, along with the Rensselaer Plateau to the west with its myriad of small lakes. These attractive bodies of water are the last remains of ancient shallow seas that long ago periodically inundated the region.
The great age of the Taconic mountains may have been part of what inspired Thoreau to say, “It was such a country as we might see in dreams, with all the delights of paradise.”
The Mountain
Bakers Mountain it is called, that mountain that rises above the village of Cedar Falls like a dark sentinel, ever threatening to fling its fast flowing waters down through town in flooding torrents. But it also meant carpets of purple violets to walk on as you followed one of the two trillium bordered streams in the Springtime, with the blazing white shadbush flowers and later the cherry blossoms releasing their incense into the air. It also meant cool shady breezes in the Summertime weaving through rustling leaves and waves of wildflowers. And in Autumn it meant abundant turkeys and deer and even bears for those hunters bold and hardy enough to climb the flanks of this peculiar mountain. Indeed it meant all those good things, or should have anyway. But those delights were for hopeful, happy and contented folks; not for those watching their town dying, their school closing and their houses in jeopardy of washing away down the river each Spring.
Why is it called Bakers Mountain? No one really knew; no one recalled any Bakers in Cedar Falls. But some years ago, the town historian had promised some in-depth research on the matter and did indeed come up with one Thaddeus Baker from the early Nineteenth Century. Unfortunately Mr Thaddeus Baker’s only claim to distinction was that he had once been incarcerated for pig thievery. It was quietly agreed to by one and all that this vein of inquiry might be best abandoned.
Some suggested the name might have been chosen because its rounded dome-like summit gave the mountain the look of a dinner roll or muffin. But most of the Taconics are rounded at the top because of the long ages of erosion that have assailed them.
Another feature Bakers Mountain shares with many of its sister peaks is the myriad of stone walls marking the old fields and yards of the long-abandoned farms. Foundations and old stone-lined wells still lurk beneath heaps of old leaves and dead branches. One is stupefied by the amount of back-breaking labor it would have taken to clear the rocks from just one of the meadows that once made up these farms. Why on earth did people do it? It was the lure of cheap land and the stubborn belief by hard-working immigrants, and some remaining Native Americans, that they could make a go of it. And for a while they did. But the already thin topsoil grew thinner each year until only a meager subsistence farming was possible. When industries sprang up, the children on these farms left for the river towns and cities to take paying jobs and buy the refrigerators, radios, cars, and all the other doo-dads and knick-knacks that have seduced us ever since. Only the rock walls, the foundations, and the water wells remain now as silent witnesses to the stories these farmers and homesteaders took to their graves.
As the years have passed, the trees have stolen back over the abandoned fields still rimmed by the great stone walls, built higher each Spring when the farmers hauled out yet more rocks from the ancient earth that yielded so reluctantly for them. In many places the trees are young now because the loggers have been through at least once, although one can still find small patches of old-growth forest on steep inaccessible ravines. And enormous pines, maples, and oaks still cling near the old foundations and along the stone walls. Trees in these locations are usually left standing by the loggers because they know there are often still pieces of wire fencing or old nails lurking inside, waiting to ruin a thousand dollar saw blade in an instant of sickening grinding and flying sparks.
If the curious explorer snoops around these old foundations and knows what to look for, he may find a patch of day lilies still blooming nearby. This attractive plant was cultivated by early settlers as an emergency food supply because the entire plant—buds, flowers, underground tubers—are all deliciously edible. Out back he might see an ancient elderberry bush that once supplied jellies, wines, and medicine. He might even find some surviving iris plants or lilac bushes or even a patch of asparagus that would still be as delicious today as it was to the long gone inhabitants. Further away, gnarled apple trees might still be yielding some dwarfed and sour fruit.
If the hiker lingers long enough pondering all these remnants of long ago, he might fall into a dreamy reverie and almost fancy that he hears the rattle of a milk pail and half expect to see a barefoot girl coming down the path with part of the family’s breakfast swinging by her side. And if dusk steals across the forest and the night breeze springs to life, the lingering visitor might find that what first sounds like the rustle of leaves and creaking of boughs, turns into sad whispery voices from years gone by and lives lost in the mists of time.
Once these old remains of habitation end, the mountain above becomes too steep and rough to have lured anyone to try taming the land. The visitor would find Randle Marsh’s cabin now standing at the highest edge of the old foundations, nestled on the shore of Black Brook, one of the two streams that drain the mountain water into the Bluejay River that rushes through Cedar Falls and then out across the valley and on down to Bennetsville. A half mile from Randle’s cabin was the remains of the old titanium mine that finally caved in one stormy night many years ago. Some claimed this was divine retribution for the supposed dalliances of the miners with the Boudine sisters. In truth it had been a poorly built and poorly producing mine in the first place. The only iron ore operations that were even briefly prosperous in the Taconics were further south, and although there was initial hope, none of them produced much of the prized titanium so sought after for paints, paper, and other products. The Adirondack Mountains further north did produce lots of it and, for a while, New York State was the leading producer of iron ore until the immense deposits in the Midwest were discovered that could be extracted quickly and more economically through simple pit mining. Although this led to some economic hardship in the Adirondacks, it was a blessing in other ways, because the crude blast furnaces of those days consumed over an acre of wood each day and spread a dense sooty smoke for miles around that befouled everything it touched.
Above the mine, Bakers Mountain turns very steep; so steep in fact that the clinging hemlocks and birches sometimes pull free from the earth and block the already tenuous paths that snake on up and around the mountain. Worse yet, some of the falling trees hang up in the branches of neighboring trees and lurk at crazy angles, waiting for the next wind storm—or until they rot—to finally come down in a thunderous crash. And there are more than a few of these paths, leading up high; certainly more than it seemed there should be. Again the Boudine sisters were often held responsible for this too. It was said they created dead-end paths and other trails that wound in aimless circles just to discourage hikers and hunters from reaching their cabin, wherever exactly that might be. Some suspected it might be above the middle section where the mountain relented briefly and formed a wide flat ridge where Black Brook dumps its waters down a spectacular thirty foot waterfalls. This speculation was a result of persistent rumors that the sisters bathed naked in the deep pool beneath these falls. From this pool, Black Brook meanders on for a quarter mile among high-growing cattails and joe-pye weed before plunging on down the north side of the mountain. Over on the east side, Turtle Brook, slightly smaller, has a straighter and less obstructed course down the mountain and babbles quickly and noisily down to where the two streams meet at the bottom, a mile west of the paper mill
