Daytrips for that reading week wanderlust

By Ian Blecher

A few twists and turns up I-91 bring you to Wharton Brook State Park, an old-fashioned swimming hole nestled between elms, evergreens, and La-Mirage ("marriages are made in Heaven...but weddings are made at: La-Mirage, North Haven!") As you drive into this sylvan paradise, a large sign informs you that the "Park closes at sunset, please read the rules," though apparently the sign with the rules has been nipped by someone who didn't read them. Empty barbecues and picnic tables line the parking lot, and bluebells bloom between the cracks in the pavement. One gasp of fresh air and you're thinking, "I can't believe I'm in North Haven!"

Until, of course, you find the pond. Surrounded on three sides by a chain-link fence and on the fourth by a stony strand of imported sand, only the fishermen are more stagnant than the brown water. Bellies pregnant and eyes vacant with beer, they laze in plastic folding chairs, staining black Metallica shirts with sweat. Next to them, fishing poles planted on the beach sway like territorial flags in the wind. Occasionally a bass impales itself on one of their hooks. Most of the time, they don't wake up to reel it in.

Grassy hills perfect for tackle football surround several paths through the woods. Even now the trees are leafless and gray from winter; spring hasn't yet made it north of New Haven. Chipmunks hop through the mud and the dead leaves of last fall crinkle as you step. You may want to have a copy of Robert Frost's collected poems with you at this point. Just put it in one of the conveniently located bonfire pits, set it on fire, and enjoy the marshmallowy goodness.

There's also an indoor activity house for those rainy days when you still have park fever, full of brochures related to Wharton Brook State Park. They're chock full of full-color and hard-to-answer questions like "Why is Wharton Brook a state park? It's just a crappy bunch of trees and some fake sand, and why does the park close after dark, really? And how did bass get into a man-made lake?"

If you walk far enough into the woods, you can become completely lost. Make sure you have your Swiss Army knife in case you need to uncork a bottle of wine while giving yourself a manicure or your park experience may become uncomfortable. At Wharton Brook, your only connections to the real world are some empty Sprite bottles and potato chip bags sunning themselves on the muddy shores of the crick. It's a swell juxtaposition, actually--the real world looks like trash compared to this park, where mud is more comely than even a Coke can. Wharton Brook's peaceful seclusion makes it the perfect place for a little hanky-panky before being ripped to shreds by a non-rule-reading psycho-murderer after sunset.

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