with fitness groups running the dunes in the summer and chil-
dren sledding down them on snowy winter days. On this day,
there are hunters, dog walkers, what sounds like ATVs in the
distance, and one guy flying a drone overhead.
After a short guided tour, Greg advises me to wander off on
my own for a while. There is no place in Rhode Island like the
dunes and the landscape seems alien compared to the rest of the
state. For a moment you can look around and pretend you’re
somewhere else. But the middle of nowhere it is not. It’s just off
Division Street and Hopkins Hill Road, with Route 95 over the
horizon, so the road noise always lingers in the background. The
nearest Dunkin’ is a three-minute drive. It’s worth a trip, but not
quite what I was seeking.
We decamp to the Middle of Nowhere Diner before our next
stop, Tillinghast Pond Management Area, also in West Green-
wich. This one is a whopping seven miles to the nearest Dunkin’
and roughly four miles to the Connecticut border, which defi-
nitely counts as remote. We appear to be the only visitors, other
than a foursome of burly dudes gearing up for a trail run. Based
on appearance, at least one of them has to be a bartender in
Providence, which somewhat diminishes the sense of isolation.
If you’re truly in the middle of nowhere, you’re not going to look
up and say, “Hey, don’t I know that guy?”
We enjoy a tranquil stroll through the relatively serene acre-
age. There is no road noise, only the pop-pop-pop of some guns
in the distance. It is lovely, but my appetite for nowhere is not
yet sated.
“You should go somewhere alone,” Greg offers. “Sometimes
when I’m out birding I’ll walk by myself for three, four hours at
a time. It’s really a whole different experience.”
On his recommendation, I head north about fifteen minutes to
Nicholas Farm Management Area in western Coventry, which
abuts the Connecticut border. I don’t pass a single business of
any kind along the way, which strikes me as a good sign. As the
sun lowers over the trees, I set out alone along a wide trail that
appears to be an old fire or timber road. Save for a truck parked
near the entrance, I see no signs of anyone else. Over the course
of roughly two hours, I don’t so much as glimpse another human.
The only sounds are a light wind rustling the trees and the per-
sistent buzz of a small plane circling overhead. I feel truly alone;
I could strip naked and howl at the moon and no one would
know. But still, a nagging dissatisfaction: I am alone, but am I
nowhere? What was I really expecting to feel?
T
he quest continues. Over the ensuing weeks
I hike state parks and nature preserves from
Hopkinton to Pascoag. I run well-groomed
trails, stumble over less carefully tended
ones, clamber over boulders and march
straight into dense forest. I experience bitter
cold and freakishly warm days, and trudge through rain, snow
and ice. I spend whole days wandering at a leisurely pace and
other times race against the sun so as not to get caught in the
dark. I explore unfamiliar areas and discover previously over-
looked corners I pass every day.
I go to Buck Hill Management Area, in the far northwest corner
of the state, driving for nearly a half-hour after getting off the
highway. (What is this, Montana?) Setting out from the trailhead
in Pascoag, roughly fifteen minutes from Dunkin’ locations in
Rhode Island, Massachusetts and Connecticut, it’s possible to
walk to the exact point where the three states converge. I don’t
“
I could strip
naked and howl at
the moon and no
one would know.
But still, a nagging
dissatisfaction: I
am alone, but am I
nowhere?
”
have quite enough time before sunset to make that trek, but I do
manage to wander for hours without encountering another soul.
The aforementioned wife’s cousin takes me on a guided tour
of the Long and Ell Pond Trail in Hopkinton, his preferred place
to get away from it all. We arrive to find the trail unusually well-
trafficked, much to Eric’s chagrin. We pass a sporty young couple
running the trails, the lady wearing only a sports bra from
the waist up, which seemed a bit flip for early December. We
encounter another young couple in Brown University sweat-
shirts, the man carrying a baby in a sling across his chest. Not a
little kid, an infant. Eric seems visibly deflated by the glut of
jaunty weekenders turning the rugged wilderness he loves into
an Instagram Story.
We scramble up a rock face to reach the top of a cliff, Eric’s
favorite stop along the trail. About a minute later, two guys and
their pit bull walk up next to us. Though their mere presence
disrupts an intended moment of serene reflection, they did bring
along a backpack full of Fireball nips, which they generously share.
They are friendly and chatty, but give off | | CONTINUED ON PAGE 118
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