SALISBURY — The celebration was brief, just long enough for a congratulatory hug and a handful of photos before the winter wind could blow them off the mountaintop.
Instead of champagne, Joel Blumert and his hiking companions feted Jan. 1 with Entenmann’s doughnuts. And it wasn’t the new year they were toasting, but Blumert’s 1,000th ascent of the state’s tallest peak.
The 76-year-old Salisbury resident has been hiking Bear Mountain twice a week, with only sporadic lapses, for nearly a dozen years. On New Year’s Day, Blumert reached the goal he set a few years ago of 1,000 climbs.
He has hiked it in the wintry cold and the summer heat, amid the splendor of the autumn foliage and even in the middle of a daunting tornado.
Joel Blumert, right, followed by Trish Walter, of Collinsville, and Linda Huebner of Halifax, Vt., climb the ridge leading to the summit of Bear Mountain on New Year’s Day. Photo by Steve Barlow
“It’s just been one step at a time and one climb at a time,” said Blumert, a musician who performs mostly at area nursing homes.
Blumert and his wife, Theresa Carroll, moved to Sharon in 1985 and to Salisbury in 1987, in part for the outdoor recreation the Tri-State region offers. But after their two daughters, Shayna and Denali, were born in the 1990s, Blumert’s exercise regimen started to lag.
In 2000, his doctor reported he had “ridiculously high blood pressure.”
“I decided if I was going to die of a stroke, it was better to die in the woods than sitting around the house,” Blumert said.
He began hiking again and rebuilt his endurance. In March 2014, he summited Bear Mountain, which at 2,316 feet is the highest peak in Connecticut. (The state’s highest point at 2,380 feet lies on the south slope of Mount Frissell at the border with Massachusetts.)
It was Blumert’s first hike up Bear in several years. As he gazed at the Twin Lakes shimmering below, he said to himself, “I love this mountain. I’m going to do this once a week.”
He grew to love the hike so much that after a year he doubled it to twice a week. Since then, Blumert has stuck to his weekly ritual with only occasional pauses for out-of-state trips or illness, along with one 13-week stretch when a pulled ligament in his pelvis planted him on the couch.
He knows the 2.9-mile route intimately, from the Undermountain trailhead off Route 41 to the intersection with the Appalachian Trail and on to the summit. In his sojourns, he has seen porcupines, deer, a timber rattler, a pair of copulating copperheads (“Or maybe they were milk snakes; I didn’t interrupt them to find out”), owls and redtail hawks — yet not a single bear.
Soon after he began hiking Bear regularly, Blumert made another vow: He would be cheerful and friendly to every hiker he met on the mountain. “I’ve developed trail friendships with 20 to 30 people,” he said.
One of them is Collinsville resident Trish Walter, who became a regular hiking buddy and has now climbed the mountain with Blumert about 70 times over the past five years.
Walter and her friend, Linda Huebner, of Halifax, Vermont, joined Blumert for his milestone hike on New Year’s Day. With 4 inches of snow having fallen the night before, they set foot shortly after noon and reached the top just before 3 p.m. The trek back down took half that time.
Aside from the blustery wind approaching the summit, they enjoyed a spectacular day of bright sunshine and blue skies.
The weather hasn’t always been so cooperative. Blumert was once nearly struck by lightning on the upper ridge. And this September, he hiked down in what he described as a tornado.
“It came right down Undermountain Trail,” he noted. “Trees were swishing back and forth. Branches were flying everywhere. There was grape-sized hail. It was scary.”
Now that he has reached his goal, Blumert plans to cut back to one hike of Bear each week. That will free time for other climbs in the area, a recumbent bicycle he has bought, and yet another mountaineering goal.
“I want to complete the 4,000-footers in New Hampshire,” Blumert said. “There are 48 of them, and I’ve done 23.”
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Marge Parkhurst with a collection of historic nails recovered from wall cavities during restoration work.
“At first it just looked like old paint,” said Parkhurst, who has been painting and restoring historic homes in Litchfield County for decades. “Until I realized it was a stencil, a beautiful pattern that repeated.”
She kept going carefully — a wet sponge, hot water, a little fabric softener — peeling back until she could see it clearly. A climbing vine emerged, applied in vertical runs to give the wall the look of wallpaper. Someone had signed it. The signature was faint, tucked above the baseboard in the corner, not fully legible. But the date was clear: 1870.
Parkhurst, owner of Cottage & Country Painting Co., has worked in enough old houses to develop a practiced eye for what they conceal — understanding that layers of paint, paper and plaster in a 19th-century New England home form a kind of compressed archive of the people who lived there.
The stencil bore a strong resemblance to what historians call Moses Eaton-type stenciling — a tradition of itinerant craftsmen who traveled New England in the early 1800s with portable kits of cut-pattern stencils. Their trade flourished because imported wallpaper was expensive. Stenciling offered the same visual effect at a fraction of the cost.
“These stencilers typically worked for a combination of cash, food and lodging,” Parkhurst said. “Their compensation was modest by any standard.” She paused, “He was a tradesman. But the work he left behind — that’s art.”
The vine pattern was dull with age but still legible. One section had survived intact beneath the layers of paper. The homeowners chose not to paint over it — instead building a wooden frame around it, a small window into 1870.
“Preservation means protecting something to prevent further deterioration,” she said. “Restoration means returning something to a previous state. In that room, we preserved what was there.”
A collection of historic nails recovered during restoration work.Photo courtesy of Marge Parkhurst/Cottage & Country Painting Company
A Station’s Secrets
Not every discovery is decorative. Some are written into the bones of a building.
Parkhurst’s own home in Colebrook is a former railroad outbuilding moved from Canaan in 1920. Scraping the trim revealed it had once been sage green — and beneath that, a warm orange-brown soaked into the wood grain. “Old paint was made more like a stain back in the 1800s,” she said. “It penetrated the wood rather than sitting on top of it — so there’s never a shine.”
Up in the attic, eye bolts still anchored in the framing mark where cables stabilized the building during its move a century ago.
The most memorable find came by accident. Cutting open a wall under the stairs, she found a clear glass bottle sealed with a glass stopper held by a rusted wire. The label read: Hartmann Brewing Co., Bridgeport, Conn. It took days of careful oiling to free the stopper. Inside: a handwritten list of sandwiches and drinks, a postage stamp still attached. Not treasure. But a treasure just the same.
“I worked for days to get that thing open — and it was just somebody’s lunch order.”
Newspapers stuffed into wall cavities, hand-wrought nails, paint layers thin as stain — over 50 years, Parkhurst has cataloged the details that tell a trained eye when a house was built and by whom. Litchfield County’s architecture is unusually varied: Georgian and Federal-style houses on Litchfield’s Main Street, industrial buildings along the rivers in Torrington and Winsted. “Each town has its own fingerprint,” she said.
The most consequential mistake she sees is changing a home’s character. “When you paint over stained woodwork, you hide the details. You can’t get them back.” She has talked more than a few owners out of it. Some have listened.
Not long ago, Parkhurst and her grandchildren gathered a few small objects, wrote a letter and tucked it into a wall of her Colebrook home. Someone will find it — a record of people who were once here.
“Walls still surprise me,” she said. “If you look hard enough, you can find buried treasure.”
In a county full of houses whose walls hold untold stories — stenciled by traveling tradesmen, nailed together by farmers, papered over by housewives following the fashions — Marge Parkhurst has spent a lifetime reminding us that history doesn’t only live in museums. Sometimes it’s hiding just behind the wallpaper.
Sarah Belzer is a writer, editor and creative director whose career has crossed journalism, advertising, film and cultural commentary. Managing Editor of The American Rant and founder of Jump Advertising, she has spent three decades shaping narratives for media and national and global brands. Marge Parkhurst is the owner of Cottage & Country Painting Co. She can be reached at marge@cottageandcountryct.com or 860-379-4748.
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