Some years back, I went to our town clerk’s office, raised my right hand and swore…to uphold my official appointment to Brunswick’s Conservation Commission. Earlier, I’d filled out a form, offered myself up for a 15-minute interview by three town councilors. I was, to be sure, a volunteer, but now I was also a town official. I walked out then to go and commit conservation on behalf of my neighbors. 

Much of our work took place in monthly meetings held in town chambers and (“remember this,” I said repeatedly to self, when humor’s asides surged toward my mouth) on the local cable channel. A few months into my first 3-year term, someone actually stopped me in a store to question a development decision we had made. “Um, you really watched us?” I wanted to say, but instead I listened. 

Occasional meetings generated heat. Most of those involved our review of a developer’s plan for a chunk of local forest and the possible conservation set-asides on offer from that developer. Few people like having a piece of woodland they’ve grown to know, and often used as if it were their own, “developed.” But, of course, Maine’s (especially coastal Maine’s) expansive appeal has spawned a demand for new houses on old lands. 

In 2017, one developer’s plan in particular, catalyzed a neighborhood’s resentment and opposition. On a warm summer evening, I put on boots, tucked my jeans into those boots as tick-protection and set out to conduct a site-walk on this proposed development. The builder had owned the 80+ acres for decades, and now he wanted to cluster a development of a dozen houses on it; he also wanted to gain some tax and other credits on offer for preserving a chunk of that forested land via a conservation easement. Our commission was there to look over that land and render opinion to the Planning Board about its conservation values. I looked forward to walking and seeing this land over a usual couple of hours. 

“Usual” went away when I arrived. Just out of my car, I was approached by a man with a clipboard. “I need you to sign this waiver,” he said. “What for?” I asked glancing at the paragraph that waived liability for the property owner. “The owner wants to be sure he’s not sued by someone if they stumble on this walk. No one can come out with us unless he signs.” “I’m on the Conservation Commission,” I said. “I’m obligated to be here.” “O, you don’t have to sign; doing this is your job, and the town covers you,” he said. 

From this unusual greeting, I looked over to see a knot of neighbors at property’s edge. The developer conferred with his landscape architect ten yards away. No one looked happy. 

Fast forward some months. Here, we touch down in a public hearing, dimpling its already-troubled water much as a dragon-fly does during its late summer rounds. By now, I am chair of the Commission, and so I must run this meeting. Accustomed to “crowds” of none or three, I am looking out at a dozen citizens, who are here for the public comment period of the discussion of the developer’s proposed easement to be accepted or rejected by the town. At issue is the easement’s language which allows hunting (in season) on the property. The dozen residents from the neighboring home owners’ association, now some 15 years in place, want us to forbid this. They bring with them the specter of random bullets flying through November mist and into their houses, or into one of them. 

It makes little difference when we — the commission — point out that the language of the proposed easement copies their earlier development’s easement, often exactly, and that includes the section that leaves hunting decisions to the new development’s community. We are tabbed as “unresponsive,” even to the collective voice of a petition against hunting signed by 50 nearby residents. 

But the land is varied, beautiful and worth preserving, and the choice about hunting we leave — in Maine tradition — to those who will live there. We vote to accept the easement. I count the angry stares from departing neighbors at 7; then usual quiet retakes our meeting’s remainder. 

And on…another year. It is summer 2018, and, as part of our seasonal responsibilities, commissioners are conducting “easement monitoring walks,” wherein we trace and traverse easements owned by the town to see if those who own these lands are living up to the conservation bargain struck. Each will be a couple of hours walking in the woods, mostly pleasant, albeit bug-infused, work. 

One easement’s name jiggles my memory a bit. What’s in that name? I wonder. Then, it comes: I will be walking the land of 2017’s “angry development,” as I’d come to think of them. 

The July day arrives, full of hot, buttery light. Charlotte, the Planning Department’s summer intern, and I drive over to do this walk. Already I know that, unlike many such walks, we will have a “witness” accompanying us. When we pull up they are two; our official host has with her a notebook. She will be offering “a report to the community” on our walk; the other, an older man, is “just interested.” No one mentions the earlier hearing. 

 We review the map of this mostly wooded 74-acre parcel and find that, unlike many easements, this one has a developed, signed trail system, which will make finding our way easier — little thicket-busting or route-finding, two easement walk staples, required. “What’s that for?” our official host asks, pointing to the 3-iron I’m carrying. “Ah, this,” I say, brandishing the club, “this is my fox-fender.” (Brunswick has been in the grip of a summer-long rabies epizootic that has seen a number of daylight attacks by foxes.) 

 We set out across an open field, then into the woods. Their shade, cast by large white pines and mixed hardwood understory, feels like entering a cool room; the walk is transformed. Suddenly, I know again why we sit in council chambers before the unblinking eye of cable tv and wade through the tens of pages of legal expression that plays in our minds like hobblebush entwining a walker’s ankles. 

 The trail winds over the lightly rumpled land through a forest verging on mature; green and blue-tinged light gives the air a cathedral cast, and the duff-covered ground breathes up a piney scent. “You should come back here in 50 years,” I say to Charlotte. “This forest, already a place of wonder, will be an amazement. The rest of us won’t be here by then, but these woodlands will be…always.” Our host smiles. 

And there it is — an easement reason to believe. We are joined by these woods. 

Sandy Stott is a Brunswick resident and chair of the town’s Conservation Commission. He writes for a variety of publications. His recent book, Critical Hours — Search and Rescue in the White Mountains, was published by University Press of New England in April, 2018; Tantor Media released an audio version of the book in February, 2019. He may be reached at fsandystott@gmail.com