STOPPING TO SMELL THE (REAL) ROSES

I'm notorious for stopping in random towns and random places when I'm out driving around because, to be completely honest, I despise the highway. Traveling by interstate may get you where you're going a lot faster, but the scenery is blasé, to be polite. Monotonous. Repetitive. The view from I-95 in Maine is often the same as it is in Connecticut, North Carolina, and Florida: Trees! Some houses! An occasional cow! Pretty standard stuff.

So, I like to wander off the overly-beaten path. Oftentimes, I get lost. (I get lost a lot, actually.) Sometimes my travels lead somewhere unexpected, like finding an old schoolhouse in the middle of being lost in Vermont, or having a quiet lunch by myself while being lost along the edge of a vineyard in New York. 

Perhaps, it even means passing by a sign pointing to a place I didn't realize existed in its location. This is how I stumble onto New England Botanic Garden at Tower Hill.

I knew there was a botanic garden in Massachusetts, but I thought it was closer to Boston. Instead, it's tucked into the middle of the state, much closer to Worcester (but not too close). It's off a backroad, but an easily accessible backroad, and there's no hectic city traffic to confuse my nonexistent sense of direction. After passing the sign a half dozen times in the last month or so, I decide that a hazy summer afternoon of temperatures in the high seventies means that it's time to stop and, quite literally, smell the roses.

And smell the other flowers, and the plants, and the trees, and the rocks, and the statues. Well, I do not smell the sculptures because that might be too weird, but the place is a treasure trove of vision, smells, and serenity. I'm wearing my comfy and sturdy flipflops, so I at first stick to things that say "easy walk." Then, I see "moderate" and decide, yeah, I can do that, too. There is one trail marked "difficult" and it's the summit trail. 

It's only a bit of a quick climb through the woods over ruts and rocks and roots, and the elevation isn't pitched too sharply, so my trusty Clark's sandals and I take to the trail. It turns out to be so worth it. At the top it is only me and an older couple. They've hiked up to celebrate their fifty-fourth wedding anniversary. They take the bench, and I stand in awe of the view. We are looking out over Wachusett Reservoir with the smoky image of Mount Wachusett sixteen or so miles off.

After that, I feel pretty invincible, so I hike all the way down to the pond, which is a silly idea in the afternoon sun and heat with nothing but an uphill climb to get back to the visitor center. This is when I have my Robert Frost Moment. I come upon two paths that diverge right there at the woods; one is well-established and one is less-traveled. I now have two choices: Do I hike back up the steeper, groomed path through the shady but buggy woods? Or, do I go for the grassy, meandering, full-sun path that rises a little more gently back to even ground?

Of course, I decide to go field-bombing. I swerve off to the left, just me and some butterflies and some haying grass, and start the trek back to even ground. About halfway up, though, the sun really is too much, so I find a connecting path and walk the last hundred yards in the shade. Technically, I took the path less-traveled, but I kind of worked my way back to civilization before I keeled over from heat stroke.

I will wander back there again, though. I realize as I'm leaving that I missed a part of the garden. I also didn't spend a lot of time perusing every little placard. I'm more of a looker than a learner when I encounter museums and places with lots to see. I'd rather take in all the visuals than synthesize information. (Explains why my nephews and I zoomed through the National Gallery of Art in D.C. -- gotta see everything!) In the end, I might veer off the beaten path, but I'll make sure every detail gets a perusal, and, if I miss something, it's just another reason to return.