Black Clouds, Lakes and a Mountain, too

According to the Connecticut Walk Book, the name "Beseck" is derived from a Native American word for black. Last Saturday, when the toying sun went in for good, I found out why a certain lake in Middlefield holds that name.
The deepest part of Beseck Lake is 25 feet, but while the rain spun its wheels over New England all last week, its dark water lapped on the boat ramp a little higher than usual. Beseck wasn’t unique in that sense. The state’s rivers were especially affected by the historic rainfall. From May 12-13, the Quinnipiac River’s gauge in Southington measured a flow of nearly 1,000 cubic feet per second. With a recommended flow of 150 to 200 for safe paddling, I instead chose the flatwater of Beseck for the first paddle in my new touring kayak.
Only three empty trailers sat in the lot on Route 147 that afternoon. A father and his sons cast from the soggy shore where the green leaves of trees touched the water. They said they had no luck and I blamed the bad weather as I struggled with my boat’s spray skirt. I soon gave up, stuffed it behind my seat and shoved off, just hoping I wouldn’t get poured on.
The flatwater I came here for wasn’t so flat as the waves were more likely to flood the boat than a downpour. I let the heavy wind push me into the wilder corner of the lake, where waterfront cottages and their docks are replaced by low-hanging limbs and pondweed.
My binoculars were strung around my neck, but the bumpy ride made it hard to identify anything save the obvious mallard. But even the most recognizable creatures were obscured through the lenses. A beaver or a woodchuck on shore simply became a mammal, while the creature that darted by me was not a cardinal, not a scarlet tanager, just a red bird.
In this same shallow corner, two men cast from a canoe. Their electric motor was off and their anchor line was taut. A few larger boats crept over the deeper water. These held back on the huge amounts of horsepower coiled within, not yet permitted to exceed the 8 mph limit until June 15 here on the 120 acres of public water wreathed by private homes.
Circling the lake, I saw only two men fishing from one of these properties. The backyard of Rover’s Bar also remained empty as the water began to mirror the darkening sky. When I returned to the ramp, a man trailering his boat said he managed to pull out a few small bass and a perch today. He didn’t seem pleased.
The DEP’s weekly fishing report from May 17, however, mentions Beseck as a place where largemouth bass fishing is "picking up." The report also warns sportsmen that the state’s river fishing is "difficult to dangerous" until the recent flooding subsides.
The bad weather kept outdoorsman and women of all kinds indoors. Even the Route 66 parking area at the Mattabesett Trail near Guida’s Restaurant had about the same amount of cars as the lot I just left. I had explored the section of Higby Mountain just north of here, but my hiking of the Mattabesett Trail between Routes 66 and 68 in Durham was incomplete. I wondered if Beseck Mountain offered any views of its namesake lake that I had just lapped. The topo map doesn’t rule it out, so I was back the next afternoon to see for myself.
Sunday’s late afternoon rain was heavier than Saturday’s, so the trail between my truck and Guida’s was in worse shape than usual; water was actually flowing down the trail and the only way to pass the mud pools was to use the downed trees as bridges.
Over the wet pavement of 66, under the crackling powerlines and down past a ruined chimney, I clipped through a few hundred feet of the Black Pond State Wildlife Area. Somewhere in the green cover, runoff was rushing down Beseck Mountain as I hiked up it.
From the cliffs, I saw that Black Pond was deserted, while just yesterday, despite the drizzle, several boats had been skimming the water. Now, in the all-out rain, only a swan navigated through the weeds, dead reckoning to its mate hundreds of yards away, resting in their wet, grassy home.
Sometimes rain can bring out the best in a trail. The view that hikers usually come to Beseck Mountain for was obscured by fog, forcing me to focus on the trail itself. The north-facing moss glowed against the saturated earth, while sagging columbine and chokecherry held the burden of raindrops.
I soon passed three abandoned cars, which somehow carried similar mysteries as the crumbling chimney behind me. Ahead, I saw a rise and a clearing that I imagined would bring me to the view of Beseck Lake I had been hoping to find.
Instead, it was Powder Ridge. I had passed Beseck Lake. A fog had fallen over the ski runs as somewhere behind the clouds and rain, the sun was setting. I had three miles to backtrack to Route 66, but I stepped up onto the unloading platform of the ski lift to look around for a moment. Here at the top of a green ski slope, it was obvious that winter was over. Summer, however, sure seemed far away.