By Mark Hanford
The Vagabond Roadhouse was a cornerstone of the Hilltowns. Set back about fifty feet on the north side of Washington Mountain Road, the long, one-story building felt timeless. Inside, to the far left, was a pool room with a single table. To the right stretched a twenty-five-foot bar, backed by an open kitchen affectionately known as Alice’s Dirty Open Kitchen. To the right of the bar stood a cigarette machine, and beside it pasted to the wall hung a six-foot rattlesnake skin, captured in nearby October Mountain Forest. Above the bar was a mounted fish with fur on it. After I got to know the owner, I asked about the furry fish. Without a hint of a smile, he replied, “That’s how cold it gets up here.”
To the left of the cigarette machine, three steps led to the dance hall. Posted for all to see was a sign reading: No stags on dance night—unattached men were not welcome. Apparently, they caused trouble.
The owners, Jack and Sandy Newberry, were wonderful, kind people who always seemed ready to help others—especially a young kid from Pittsfield trying to build a place to live and raise a family. At the Vagabond I met people from all walks of life, each one seemingly able to answer any question about Hilltown living. I was also introduced to two distinctly local forms of entertainment, both involving firearms: the annual turkey shoot and deer hunting season.
The turkey shoot took place in early fall in the field to the right of the bar. Being from Pittsfield and unfamiliar with such events, I asked Jack to explain. I imagined a group of men firing at some unfortunate turkey. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Jack told me to stop by on Sunday at one o’clock, and see for myself.
When I arrived the following Sunday, the parking lot was packed with pickup trucks, and the bar was full. I grabbed a cold one and watched as, at one o’clock sharp, the crowd moved up the three steps into the dance hall. They formed a line in front of a small table where Jack’s brother-in-law Bill sold spots in the shoot. At two dollars a shot, I bought one.
From there the line moved out the back door. In the yard stood ten wooden posts, each with a white paper target and bullseye tacked to it. A rope line marked the firing line about fifty feet back. I didn’t own a gun, but having recently finished my Navy service as a gunner’s mate, I was comfortable handling weapons. I borrowed the bar shotgun, received a shell from Jack, and took my place.
When all shooters were ready, Jack gave the signal. The air filled with the sound of gunfire and lead shot. Afterward, we walked forward to collect our targets. Jack and Bill examined them carefully to find the pellet hole closest to the bullseye. The winner took home a frozen turkey. This process repeated ten times, and then the shoot was over—all while the drinks flowed freely. It was a tradition that, in hindsight, might be better left in the past.
Deer season ran from the last week of November through the first week of December. I never hunted and had no desire to, but I wouldn’t miss the storytelling afterward. The bar would be packed with hunters swapping tales of clever whitetails that got away—or didn’t. They discussed strategy in detail. Some hunters served as drivers, others as sitters. The sitters spread out in a line through the woods, weapons ready, while the drivers entered far away and moved steadily forward, pushing deer toward the waiting line. It was a family affair. Grandfathers taught grandsons; fathers taught sons. They passed down traditions, customs, and firearm safety, along with lessons about respect and cooperation. Hunters came from every walk of life—rich and poor, young and old. It was also a time to catch up on each other’s lives, in an era before cell phones, when men didn’t spend much time on the telephone. Often, the hunters referred to the “Indian mounds” as landmarks for organizing their lines. I never knew exactly what or where they were. When asked, Jack would simply say they had been there forever.
Years later, while serving as Fire Chief for Becket and Washington, I learned the truth. During a smoke and carbon monoxide detector inspection near an old hunting area, I noticed an unusually tall stone wall beside a home. Curious, I climbed over it. On the other side, stretching east to west, was a line of eight stone mounds. Some were dome-shaped piles of rocks carefully stacked on flat outcroppings; others were hollow, cave-like structures built into the ground. The place felt cathedral-like and deeply mystical. Research revealed that these mounds were most likely built by Native Americans over centuries. The Mohegan tribe inhabited the region, wintering near the Connecticut shoreline and summering in the Hilltowns to hunt whitetail deer and trap game. They returned to the same camps year after year, telling stories around campfires and teaching younger members their traditions. When someone told a story, they added a stone to the pile. The hollow mounds stored sacred objects and talismans meant to protect them.
It is striking how closely the traditions of the Mohegans mirrored—and perhaps informed—the local hunting culture of the 1970s. As the saying goes, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
