The view from Memorial Hill

On the other hand, yesterday I left by the back door and walked up the hill the way I used to after practice every day. The leaves are changing, and the view south from atop the hill was pretty spectacular. I’m told The College has maintained this view through some judicious land purchases and leases, essentially allowing the southern part of town to develop so long as it’s not visible from the campus. One of the results has been the preservation of a lot of very nice open space in South Amherst; another is this view, pretty much hills and trees straight back to the Holyoke range, where Bare Mountain and Rattlesnake Knob look back at the viewer. The hills in between, “Mounts” Castor and Pollux, were apparently named for twin maple trees on their crests when they were both cleared farmland. The northern twin is gone, or subsumed by other trees, but if you look carefully from Bay Road there is still a flaming red maple at the crest of the southern hill.

The hills look like a storm-tossed sea in a Japanese painting, or a seriously rucked-up rug. From here, there’s nothing placid about them, though you’d think there would be. I wonder how many students stop for a few seconds at the top of the hill when they pass by, and look out, and think about the world beyond the little microcosm they’re in. I know I used to look, but I can’t remember what I was thinking about.

Or do they at least look out and think, “Whoa.” Especially since they cut a row of tall pines on the first-base side of the baseball field, the view is pretty clear.

Jolted out of my routine, I managed to forget the half-full mug of tea I had left in my locker while I swam. I expect it will be iced tea when I go back tomorrow.

I thought about this post yesterday, when I once again walked up Memorial Hill from the gym, this time to drop something off in Webster rather than because of floor wax. It was about quarter past seven, and the sun was newly risen. Looking south towards the Holyoke Range, there was nothing but clouds, but to the east the ridge of the Pelham Hills was visible. Between the pines at the edge of the lower fields and the Pelham ridge, however, was nothing but fog, and the trees were frosted with new snow. After gaping for a minute or so, I hastily looked back at the path, because I expected to bump in to Frank Ward photographing it for an Admissions publication.