Schlaf Farm

The Sun Also Rises in Somers
Northern Connecticut Land Trust: Schlaf Farm, Somers
December 2023

The winter sun had risen a mere two hours before. The pale yellow ball glowed low in the eastern sky, hinting at some possible warmth later in the day. The December fields of corn, their dead stalks chopped down to the clumpy partially frozen soil like so many young men in recent years, set a somber mood.

I began my march. An empty yarn store parking lot marking my departure and my eventual return. I hoped.

This was Schlaf Farm. Central Somers, Connecticut. A town name that belied the frigid winter chill straining my lungs and shortening my breath. The trenches between the rows of withered crop from a season that felt so long ago confused each foot-fall as I made my way towards the safety of the woods.

A scuttle of leaves to my left. It was a squirrel.

It had to be a squirrel. Unseen snipers would not be so careless. And I had no new holes in me.

A white church stood sentry across the field, nine chimes rung. For Whom the Bell Tolls.

I continued along the field’s edge, searching for an opening. A trail. A sign. Anything to give me comfort that I’d be less exposed out here on the scarred earth of Somers. I espied a sign: No Wheeled Vehicles, as if that would have stopped the tanks.

The distant growl of a plane from the south aroused my fears. An opening through the bramble and barbed wire beckoned me under the cover of the towering pines. Shreds of ragged serge stained with dried black blood, hung on the shining barbs and I could swear I smelt a twinge of gun smoke in the air; scent memory is a powerful thing.

I thought of my friend Cohn. Parisian cafes. My father on his boat: The Old Man and the Sea. Dreamily, I wanted for the smell of Brett’s perfume to overtake everything. I was to meet Cohn on the other side of these woods.

There are trails here. Unmarked and unblazed, but this patch of woods is small. I’d find my way. Trees blocked my path at regular intervals; some felled by the unending whims of nature, some blown to smithereens by the enemy. Some by friends. Some friends. At times, the trail was newly cleared and at others, it was a mere wildlife path. I circled around at the edge of the woods, nearing a road.

This valuable property was donated by Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Schlaf who were both career Army Veterans.

The Schlaf Farm, located near the center of Somers, contains two fields and a wooded area with hiking trails. The fields are leased to local farmers and provide a source of income to the Land Trust.

Vets. Good. Good people. Hopefully not as damaged as I.

The trail swung left towards the road and some buildings that appeared to be inhabited. At the edge of the forest I saw a table with a man sitting at it. He gave a friendly wave and I immediately recognized him as Harvey. A man was crossing the road thirty paces beyond. Harvey was enjoying a large picnic lunch. A Movable Feast.

“There comes Cohn,” I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street.
“That moron,” said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table.
“Hello, you bums,” he said.
“Hello, Robert,” Harvey said. “I was just telling Steve here that you’re a moron.”

I had to complete my circuit through the woods. If anything, I always completed my missions. Except with Brett. Oh, Brett. I left Harvey and Cohn behind, wondering where she was at the moment. The trail quickly faded into nothingness amongst the young pines. Trees sprouting from the soil still stained with blood of the recently fallen. There was so much Death in the Afternoon here. “Life from life,” Cohn would say with a knowing sneer.

Animals had reclaimed this small patch of land; gone are the cannon and bayonets. Evidence of a bear, solitary and seed-fed, lay in my path. A Farewell to Arms, I say, and hello to a veritable Garden of Eden.

Papa Bear

The loop completed and the forest cleared, I made for the edge of the open field once more. Having seen my friends, I felt more confident this area of Somers was safe. This trek was certainly easier than that across the Snows of Kilimanjaro.

Now nearing the end of my walk of Schlaf Field, back to the knitting store, I paused to reflect on this Northern Connecticut Land Trust Property. It’s small. It’s flat. The few short trails are hit or miss. There are those who will appreciate this trail report, and many more who won’t. To Have and Have Not, I suppose. I like the idea of people finding this page and enjoying it.

Isn’t it pretty to think so?

With deepest apologies to Ernest Hemingway and his entire estate.