Memories of a Magical Fort
When imagination is matched by know-how, a Maine boy builds a magical, hulking fort in the woods.
Lorie Costigan
Down East reader Dennis Wood grew up near Gray, where his childhood was filled with outdoor adventures and rigorous activity tempered by a fair amount of responsibility. From Wood's childhood play a hideaway sprouted and evolved into a six-story cabin as his construction abilities developed to meet his creativity.
Surely many of the best childhood memories made in Maine — likely a childhood anywhere — involve forts, castles and clubhouses. This vast, outdoor playground that is Maine provides a playset of woods, meadows, abandoned blackberry patches, sumac groves and other natural settings that, as Wood's story suggests, extends beyond enriching a childhood to shape adulthood.
Submitted as a handwritten note along with a dog-eared, much-handled photo and newspaper clipping, Wood's story made me recall days spent pilfering empty cable spools, barrels, and shipping boxes from an industrious neighbor who indulged my need to build something — anything — among the ferns that separated our backyards. Suffice to say I never gained the soaring heights of Mr. Wood's creation, nor his construction expertise. I built what amounted to a secluded patio. That building is now the source of Mr. Wood's livelihood and gardening remains an avocation for me is, to my way of thinking, testament to the quality of the outdoor playground we shared.
Here is his story:
“As you can see, ‘I’m old school.’ I have a computer, but couldn’t send an email if I tried. I have a cellphone, but my kids have to program it for me. I grew up in the state of Maine during a time when Daniel Boone was on TV and my brothers and I would play ‘Cowboys and Indians,’ running through the rows of corn up behind our parents’ house, which leads me to the picture.
When I was a kid my playground was the woods and in 1973, when I reached the age of 15, I was proficient in the swing of an ax and the grip of a chainsaw. That’s when the creation began. I picked the Christmas field. Where my father had planted 5,000 Balsam Fir. You could only get there by those old grassy farmers’ roads that twine through the Maine woods, and for the next five years, every spare moment I had, a vision emerged about half-a-mile in back of our house.
It was grand! At 52-feet tall it stood six-stories high. Oak trees were cut for the framework, and slab wood came from the local sawmill in Gray. Very few pictures of it exist and, because of its size, two pictures had to be put together to make the whole view.
The first floor had two parlor stoves and the second floor had two bedrooms. The third floor we called the Presidential Suite and the very top opened like a hatch door leading to the crow’s nest. At this point I had cleared the treetops and had a clear shot at Mount Washington. I even had a cable system that ran 200-feet through the trees that you could glide on and lower yourself into a treehouse. Light was from a kerosene lantern and running water was from a cistern.
Very few people knew of its existence, except for my classmates of Chevrus, Class of 1976. The memories are priceless. Before moving to Florida, I actually lived there the entire year of 1979-1980. Normally there would be snowdrifts 3- to 6-feet deep in that part of the woods, but that particular winter was different. That was the year (if anyone can remember) that all of Southern Maine received absolutely no snow the entire winter. Go figure!
During the fall of 1981 someone torched it — deliberately or by accident, who knows. By the time the firemen had chainsawed their way through the woods for their trucks, the building was engulfed. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust — it returned to the earth.
I’m now approaching 50 and sometimes catch myself wondering where the time went, but will never forget growing up in Maine. I return when I can and my mother and three brothers still live in Maine.
Sorry if I rambled — thought this story might be an interesting as one kid’s dreams and an older man’s memories."
Dennis Wood lives in Port St. Lucie, Florida, where he is a builder.
Surely many of the best childhood memories made in Maine — likely a childhood anywhere — involve forts, castles and clubhouses. This vast, outdoor playground that is Maine provides a playset of woods, meadows, abandoned blackberry patches, sumac groves and other natural settings that, as Wood's story suggests, extends beyond enriching a childhood to shape adulthood.
Submitted as a handwritten note along with a dog-eared, much-handled photo and newspaper clipping, Wood's story made me recall days spent pilfering empty cable spools, barrels, and shipping boxes from an industrious neighbor who indulged my need to build something — anything — among the ferns that separated our backyards. Suffice to say I never gained the soaring heights of Mr. Wood's creation, nor his construction expertise. I built what amounted to a secluded patio. That building is now the source of Mr. Wood's livelihood and gardening remains an avocation for me is, to my way of thinking, testament to the quality of the outdoor playground we shared.
Here is his story:
“As you can see, ‘I’m old school.’ I have a computer, but couldn’t send an email if I tried. I have a cellphone, but my kids have to program it for me. I grew up in the state of Maine during a time when Daniel Boone was on TV and my brothers and I would play ‘Cowboys and Indians,’ running through the rows of corn up behind our parents’ house, which leads me to the picture.
When I was a kid my playground was the woods and in 1973, when I reached the age of 15, I was proficient in the swing of an ax and the grip of a chainsaw. That’s when the creation began. I picked the Christmas field. Where my father had planted 5,000 Balsam Fir. You could only get there by those old grassy farmers’ roads that twine through the Maine woods, and for the next five years, every spare moment I had, a vision emerged about half-a-mile in back of our house.
It was grand! At 52-feet tall it stood six-stories high. Oak trees were cut for the framework, and slab wood came from the local sawmill in Gray. Very few pictures of it exist and, because of its size, two pictures had to be put together to make the whole view.
The first floor had two parlor stoves and the second floor had two bedrooms. The third floor we called the Presidential Suite and the very top opened like a hatch door leading to the crow’s nest. At this point I had cleared the treetops and had a clear shot at Mount Washington. I even had a cable system that ran 200-feet through the trees that you could glide on and lower yourself into a treehouse. Light was from a kerosene lantern and running water was from a cistern.
Very few people knew of its existence, except for my classmates of Chevrus, Class of 1976. The memories are priceless. Before moving to Florida, I actually lived there the entire year of 1979-1980. Normally there would be snowdrifts 3- to 6-feet deep in that part of the woods, but that particular winter was different. That was the year (if anyone can remember) that all of Southern Maine received absolutely no snow the entire winter. Go figure!
During the fall of 1981 someone torched it — deliberately or by accident, who knows. By the time the firemen had chainsawed their way through the woods for their trucks, the building was engulfed. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust — it returned to the earth.
I’m now approaching 50 and sometimes catch myself wondering where the time went, but will never forget growing up in Maine. I return when I can and my mother and three brothers still live in Maine.
Sorry if I rambled — thought this story might be an interesting as one kid’s dreams and an older man’s memories."
Dennis Wood lives in Port St. Lucie, Florida, where he is a builder.
Views expressed in blogs such as Media Mutt and others published on Down East.com reflect neither Down East's editorial stance nor the views of Down East Enterprise.
Reader Comments:
I had a lot of great times at Woody's cabin! Oh if trees could talk! Great story! Patty C.