One of my favorite feelings in the world is driving out of Boston. Compass pointing west, I downshift mentally to the measured, comfortable pace of the western massachusetts wavelength. With each mile, the tightness, harbored in my neck and shoulders, fades. Eventually, it’s discarded somewhere along the way entirely, can’t be sure which mile marker exactly. I grow stronger, I center. I’m home… The following is a tribute to the region, an ode to Western Mass (and its rivers and ponds).

But, before I get too far ahead of myself (which I do…constantly), where is this mystical place? Where is this western mass?

Well, you see, it depends on who you’re talking to…

Where is Western Mass?

The City Slicker

There is a population amongst us that knows little of our commonwealth outside of its capital and coastline. Granted, Eastern Mass houses most of what comes to mind when thinking of “Massachusetts.” It’s home to its institutions, its history.

But, I’m going to let you in on a little secret: there’s a whole lotta other stuff, man.

These fine fellows are what I’ll call the city slicker. Western Mass, for these folks, is anything west of I-495 – Boston’s second concentric ring of oft-gridlocked traffic fuckerdom.

This population includes the much maligned “Masshole,” that boisterous, foul-mouthed, aggressive character. He speaks at you, whilst gesticulating furiously on diverse topics, such as the Pats and Sox. He mainlines “double, doubles from Dunks” and casually calls you “guy” every other sentence. You know this person likes you if he tells you “Go fahk yahself, kid.” But he doesn’t tell you this because he doesn’t like you.

Entertaining, indeed, yet exhausting.

The Base-Case

If you chop off Cape Cod (please don’t, it’s really nice!), Massachusetts is essentially a rectangle with a highway (I-90/The Pike) running its entire length smack down the middle. So, it makes sense that most folks mentally account for its landmarks (cities) as demarcations along a westerly vector extending from Beantown. If this defines your headspace, which it does for many, then Worcester separates Eastern Mass and Western Mass.

Unfortunately (for them), this geographical separation generally goes hand-in-hand with a separation of worth, i.e. these folks think that anything and everything “important” takes place east of Worcester and the other side is just woods or farms or filled with hobbits and ents… something like that.

The Tanglewood Crowd

Running north-south along the western edge of the commonwealth are the Berkshires. These are mountains, I guess, but you may think they’re quaint if you’re comparing them to the Rockies or similar elevations. Here, you’ll find an outdoor amphitheatre venue called Tanglewood. It’s home to the Boston Pops Orchestra during the summer and various jazzy/folky/opera-y performers throughout the hot months. Don’t get me wrong, it’s awesome, but it’s not western mass.

It’s a rendezvous. It’s a DMZ, a meeting place for Boston and CT/NY’s elite to put down their torches momentarily, break bread and experience culture. They put aside their laptops and stethoscopes for a few hours and focus on the important stuff: wine, cheese and cured meats. For this tanglewood patron, the concept of western mass is: “Oh, you mean like the Berkshires? Yeaaaah, we love it there.”

My Western Mass

Now that I’ve alienated everyone in New England, everyone in our solar system, I’d like to share with you my concept of western mass.

My western mass is a feeling.

It’s something that builds as I approach the Pioneer Valley.

I smile. I smell deeply. Seasonality becomes important. Colors are more vivid. I don’t mind some dirt under my nails. Shoes are superfluous.

I catch myself driving 5-10 miles under the speed limit and quicken my pace, but only momentarily. I’m more distracted than a teenage driver. Nature diverts my attention, not the text message.

Bog, then pond give way to stream and river, and suddenly it snakes right alongside the road: my river!

Well, of course it’s not my river, but it’s the one I grew up on. It’s the one I know. It’s where I fished, where I hopped from rock to rock and explored.

Now, I can flip on the radio. There’s only one station: The River. It won’t be turned off until I hit the same spot, but facing (back) towards Boston. At that time, I’ll know the stint in western mass has come to its completion, to be picked up again, close to where we left off.

Rivers

This most recent escapade involved giving back and some alone time outdoors… What could be better?

We teamed up with a few organizations to help out with a site clean-up on the Deerfield River. Sadly, the genesis of the idea was in response to a sulfuric acid spill that occured over this past Labor Day weekend. There wasn’t a whole lot we could do to respond to the spill itself, beyond letting nature heal itself, but it did lead me to the Deerfield River Trout Unlimited and Connecticut River Conservancy organizations. When I learned about their clean-up day, I jumped at the opportunity to do something… anything.

We showed up with heavy boots, old jeans and big smiles. We kicked ass.

About 30 volunteers spent half a day pulling trash, plastic, glass, metal and tires out of a quarter mile stretch of the river. It’s a severe bank at this location, maybe 60 – 80 feet elevation drop, so hauling anything out required patience, balance and some sweat equity.

I’ll spare you the details of all the weird stuff we pulled out, but I think it’s important to note that all of this junk came from a small section of a clean river.

Crazy… I know.

When it was appropriate, I pulled away from the group, took off the boots and got in the river. I was treated to the sight and sounds of a massive osprey cruising down river.

Ponds

We spent the remainder of the weekend on a beautiful pond out in the sticks. No cell service, no electricity, no worries.

The fishing was good, mostly bass, with a mean-looking pickerel sprinkled in, here and there.

We were fortunate enough to catch some great wildlife too: turtles, beaver and the king of ponds, the blue heron.

Thank you for reading this ode to Western Mass. Until next time. I’ll be back soon.