Lucky me, I live just one mile from The Mountain.
That’s its entire name. The Mountain.
The first time I heard “The Mountain” I figured it was just local shorthand by folks here in Rome and Belgrade, Maine. I was wrong. Look at a central Maine map—Google, DeLorme, our local land trust’s—and it is The Mountain. That’s a bold assertion for a 665-foot-high hill that isn’t even the highest in town.
The Mountain has a Little Mountain That Could feeling to it though. Since I moved to Rome in 2001, I have run The Mountain, skied The Mountain, hiked The Mountain, mountain biked The Mountain, listened for birds on The Mountain, watched the sun set from The Mountain. I have done so before I had kids, while pregnant, with babies in a backpack or a ski pulk, and as those babies have grown into teenagers and young adults.
In spring Pink Lady Slippers and other wildflowers appear on The Mountain. In summer there are wild blueberries and a variety of mushrooms. In fall the leaves drop and cover the trails in a maple and oak mosaic. In winter there are fresh tracks in the snow—mine, a snowshoer, a fox chasing a vole.
Sculpted and rounded by glacial ice 2 million years ago, The Mountain may not be tall in elevation, but it rises prominently between Great and Long Ponds. (Despite the names, those are actually large lakes in the Belgrade Lakes chain.) To the east is Great Pond. Here E.B. White spent childhood summers, Ernest Thompson wrote On Golden Pond, and L.L. Bean came to his cabin to fish and hunt. His brother, E.A. Bean, ran a sporting goods store in the village.
To the west lies Long Pond and the Kennebec Highlands—6,800 acres of conservation land that contain the highest peaks in Kennebec County, miles of pristine streams, several wetlands, five undeveloped ponds, and blueberry barrens.
It sounds rather idyllic, but there’s more to the picture: the Belgrade Lakes watershed is warming, invasive aquatic plants are spreading, water quality has worsened, and the iconic Common Loons are struggling to maintain numbers. While The Mountain may have been born of glaciers, the climatic changes happening are not glacial.
Still, The Mountain can feel like a sanctuary.
When I first stepped foot on it, The Mountain had fewer than two miles of trails—a main trail that was once a county road, plus two small loops off either side. Its initial 207 acres had been acquired only a few years earlier in 1997 by our local land trust, Belgrade Regional Conservation Alliance (now 7 Lakes Alliance), and the Belgrade Lakes Association.
Since then, more than 100 acres of woodlands and open meadows have been added to the north and a 217-acre working farm with a conservation easement connects the properties. The Mountain, combined with its abutting Quill Hill property, now offers about six miles of trails for hikers, trail runners, mountain bikers, and cross-country skiers.
With its trailhead so close—only a mile from home—I’ve traveled hundreds of miles on The Mountain’s trails over the years. While I don’t recall each run or hike individually, there’s a cumulative familiarity from the dirt, rocks, mud, and snow I’ve felt underfoot. There are the mossy rock slabs covered in ferns, the tree that bends like so, the lake view at sunset. And that’s where I hear Hermit Thrushes in summer, the icy spot I slip on in winter, the tree a Barred Owl flew from. Then there’s the time a Pileated Woodpecker flew across the trail in front of me, and the spot a fox and I paused to cross paths at dawn.
I could go on, but even in the same space, on the same trail, each visitor will have their own layers of moments and memories.
Its proximity to busy Belgrade Lakes Village makes The Mountain a popular spot in summer, though many times I’ve gone without seeing anyone else. It offers a relatively easy walk through the woods, with a few route variations, rocks, plants, mushrooms, and many trees. Despite its long-time popularity, only this past month did The Mountain get a sign on the main road pointing to the trailhead. This was big news for me when I returned from vacation.
Despite its prominence, all those trees mean there are only a few views (disappointing some AllTrails reviewers). Tip: You’ll find the best views on the Long Pond Loop, though watch out for the steep drop-offs.
The Mountain isn’t 7 Lakes Alliance’s only property. If you want sweeping views, head to nearby French Mountain to the north of Long Pond; it’s also higher at 716 feet. Quiet Fogg Island at the other end of the lake has several miles of undeveloped shoreline. There are a number of trail options in the watershed, and the land trust is working to conserve another 7,000 acres by 2030.
The Mountain feels most personal to me though. Maybe because of its proximity to my home, maybe because it was the first one I visited and I imprinted on it, maybe I just like all its trees and rocks.
Most likely it’s all those miles and time.
I think we all need green (or blue or brown or white) spaces, places we can go to and return again and again. I’m lucky that one of mine is only a mile away. It’s an easy walk or run into the woods. Many times I have stopped to ponder or just sit on a rock a while before returning home. One afternoon last winter I wondered how many times I’d looked at the same view. Though is it really the same view?
Then I considered, what if this wasn’t here? What if I’d never been allowed to visit? All those miles and moments erased. Parts of me erased. It was sobering.
Getting to know a place across seasons and years can offer perspective, feelings of ownership, responsibility, connection. Public lands and land trusts can expand that opportunity to more people. You don’t have to own the land to have a relationship with it, to have a place you know and care for. But you do need a place.
It doesn’t need to be large, nor majestic, nor wild. It can be The Field, The Stream, The Woods, The Park, The View, That Tree, My Rock (I’ve had several of these in my lifetime). Maybe it is The Mountain to you, even if it’s only a hill. Whatever and wherever it is, it should feel like yours, but also everyone’s. Hopefully it calls to you.
All photos copyright Alicia MacLeay