The Mackerel Hill Water Tower in Waltham, MA sits at the highest point of a small swath of woodsy, meadowed conservation land, surrounded by the grounds of multiple abandoned 20th century mental institutions. The tower is at the pinnacle of Mackerel Hill, which modestly looms 300 ft above sea level and is classified as a drumlin because it was formed by glacial ice pushing piles of clay, silt and rocks into oblong-shaped hills. Because glaciers cannot tread gently across the earth.
Drumlins typically feature one wicked steep slope, while the rest of the sides are more gradual climbs. My favorite trail up Mackerel Hill is via the steep slope — right where the glacial ice pushed up and compressed the loose till roughly 20,000 years ago. These are not mountains, but this trail climbs roughly 100 feet in .10 mile (with sizable rocks and stones to test agility). That’s about an average 15% grade. Run without pause, and you’ll feel that climb for sure.
Approaching the tower from the steepest trail
Mackerel Hill is located less than a half mile off of the Western Greenway Trail, a 6-mile long contiguous path that winds through a green necklace of open space in the towns of Waltham, Lexington, and Belmont. I’ve been running the Western Greenway Trail for about 6 years. It’s my “bread and butter” local trail, boasting plenty of rolling technical terrain, and I’ve spent some time exploring of the surrounding areas and paths that link to the Greenway. When I have a 20 mile run to do, I can afford to get a little lost.
Dewy May morning at a Greenway meadow
About 4 years ago, I wandered off the Greenway to explore a wide gravel road (closed to vehicles) that disappeared into the woods. The road is evidence that this area of the conservation land is not as untouched as the lively meadows and forested wetlands that the Greenway passes through. I soon found myself at the bottom of Mackerel Hill, staring at the unassuming Metfern Cemetery.
Metfern Cemetery
The Metfern Cemetery is an expanse of grass with roughly two dozen brick-like stone markers, two marked aisles, and several small memorials. According to the sign posted near the gravel path, roughly 300 former patients of the Metropolitan State Hospital and the Fernald State School were buried here from 1947 to 1979. The story of the Metfern Cemetery is a whole other blog post, but to summarize: I used to find it creepy to run past, but now that I know its history, I find the cemetery to be incredibly sad. This is where they buried the patients who no one came to get.
Looming above the cemetery, Mackerel Hill itself is pretty creepy. It’s the former site of the Gaebler’s Children Center, a state-run psychiatric institution for children that operated from 1955-1992 and was demolished in 2011. Several internet resources refer to the center as “the old Gaebler Unit”– creep-y! My googling also yielded some stories about the inevitable abuse that occurred when hundreds of children are confined to an institutional setting (e.g., “Gaebler, To Hell and Back” details physical abuse, forced seclusion and constant Thorazine) and this interesting Creepy-chusetts blog about the building’s demolition, in which the author meets a former patient who tells similar stories.
Forested wetlands at the foot of the drumlin
With the area’s rich history involving mental institutions (most of which have since been abandoned or demolished, with the notable except of McLean Hospital), I do find the area creepy. It’s not so much that I’m scared of ghosts or zombies. It’s much more a fear of the unstable individuals that might be attracted to the area. Whether it be a former patient returning to exact revenge for being institutionalized (revenge…on the local joggers?) or a bunch of satanic-wannabe teenagers needing blood for their pentagram graffiti, my paranoia has conjured fears about it all.
But more than that, I am haunted by sadness, and even some guilt. Running up Mackerel Hill brings me such pleasure and vitality. I am never more alive than when I am bounding up a hill. My feet dart over roots and glide through rocks; my lungs and heart labor with increasing intensity, as my eyes scan the horizon to help my brain determine how much effort my legs can continue to give based on the distance still remaining to the tower. And above all, there is a part of me not connected to any physical part of my body, and it’s overriding all these parts of my body, ordering them to persist in their labors until the water tower is reached.
And when I reach the tower and see the spooky graffiti popping vividly from the rusted gray steel, I slow my body to a shuffle to recover. “They live,” it says. But they don’t. Around here, at that moment, I am the one that is living.
Water Tower Graffiti
