Between a Rock and Tall Place

My poor sense of direction and preparation have the penchant to turn anytime I set foot
outside for a simple walk into a nightmare, but add a few friends to the mix, and it becomes a
glorious expedition right out of Calvin and Hobbes. Id guess my personal Hobbes would be my
friend Jake, a slender, pipe-smoking, computer-building, table-top gaming jack, or rather, jakeof-all-trades. Not only did he bring up idea for Hannah Robinson tower as a target, but also
suggested the other sites that accompany the tragic tale of Hannah Robinson: the Robinson house
and her grave. My dad dated a girl in college who lived [at the Robinson house], he mentions
conversationally as were sprawled out in the dimming orange sunset on the quad. Also, her
gravesite is literally across the street from my house [Riverdell Drive].
The lack of daylight limited my decision to just the tower, but Jake continued his
generosity by driving me and another companion there and supplying the paper, pencil, and
flashlights that would be the source of a successful pilgrimage. With the exception of Jakes
word and the signature graffiti dotting the mysterious tower off Route 1 like the inside of a
summer camp cabin, there is no other kind of designation to what this place is. A section of
woods beside the tower is framed by what would have held a bulletin of information about what
is known as Hannah Robinson Tower, one hundred feet of worn wood first built in 1938, rebuilt
fifty years later and sixty feet shorter with much of the same materials. It always struck me
during my many drives to and from the University as a queue for a Six-Flags waterslide, which is
something that certainly wouldnt kill this college town to consider building.
While there is no water-lubricated plastic winding around this ominous stack of thick,
criss-cross logs, there are two beautiful views to make up for the burning in my knees and soles
after five steep staircases. My two friends and I lean against the rust-patched steel tube grates
that corral climbers and vandals, taking in the two trails of lights on either side of us: 138s early
evening traffic to the right, a warm up to the magnificent sparkling Jamestown Bridge to our left,
flowing across the black glassy water into the warm peachy glow of its namesake. Between these
sights is a cushion of plush evergreens that dominate the surroundings; indeed they are the
culprit of stealing what was once a magnificent ocean view from the ledge theyre growing on,
what H.P. Lovecraft called the finest rural prospect I have anywhere seen.
So besides trying to recapture a view claimed by nature, why does this tower stand? And
how come Im able to make it wobble to the nervous laughter of my friends? Twenty-three years

without major maintenance and small concrete bases on the four supports are probably the most
responsible for the unnerving flexibility of the lumber skeleton. This once-sturdy tower saw
observation duty during World War II after being built by the Civilian Conservation Corps.
Adding the sixty feet of extra height to the view we took in, it wasnt hard to imagine spotting a
U-boat literally a mile away, nautical or otherwise. Being on a tower where Rhode Island troops
kept watch over our countrys coastline for serious threats in our little state brings my sense of
pride up a few notches, or in this case, steps. After carefully stabbing our way back down the
sharply set slats, past the spritzes of mildew-white spraypaint, we dive into the undergrowth
behind the tower, hunting for Hannah Robinson Rock.
The rock and the wooded outcropping in front of it that expands over the sea is
purportedly where the daughter of a prominent Narragansett planter stopped on her pilgrimage
back to her home from Providence, after eloping with her lover. Hannah Robinson met her
husband, teacher Peter Simon when she was sent away for schooling in Newport between 176465. The class difference between the two was the cause of secrecy of the relationship from
Hannahs father Rowland, who was known to be extraordinarily strict and stubborn. However,
their guise was aided by many other members of the Robinson family, culminating with an
escape to Providence from an aunts ball at Smiths Castle some miles north of the Robinson
residence.
At least they had a plan. After the concrete slabs embedded in gravel ended in front of a
vine-encrusted gap in the thickets, so did our idea of where to go. I took up the rear, penlight in
one hand, notebook in the other, ducking under the thin, wispy branches of young trees making
navigating what once was a clearing very difficult in the dark. The first thing we stumble on, in
both senses, is the ledge, flanked by hints of two houses. Were very fearful of overstepping the
bounds of public land, and have spent a good twenty minutes blindly ambling about in the pitch
dark of the forest. While I lament the fast and loose decision and resign myself to finding another
place to explore, Jake somehow discovers the right path, a general area of the forest with slightly
less trees.
After what we went through to find the damn thing, I felt entitled to share Hannahs right
to the rock as her final resting place. I was able to actually sit on the little step-rock and
scrawl a few more notes. Peepers from the obscured waterfront of the ledge, steadily chirp, the
subdued rhythm reflecting the cooler autumn night. I find out the hard way that the smaller rock

Im sitting on is the only means of getting up on the centerpiece; my friends awkwardly step
around and over me. My other companion, Ryan, stumbles to clamber up, wondering How did
that girl climb up it? I wondered the same thing, mesmerized by the folds and bulges of this side
of the boulder, making it look like the front side of an obese granite giant.
Our abbreviated adventure pales in comparison to the story of Hannah Robinson after her
marriage. Her father was naturally enraged at her actions and demanded to know who assisted
her secret marriage, but no one would come forward. He reached out to Hannah, sending her
messages promising forgiveness and acceptance back into his household if she would divulge the
guilty parties, but she would not sacrifice the honor of her word. Without any of her fathers
wealth, Simon eventually left Hannah, who succumbed to sickness and only saw a limited
amount of provisions sent by her mother and her maid provided by her father. Only when she
was near death did her assisting relatives advise her to reveal their identities to her father, so she
sent him a message saying she was now able to confess. Finally, Rowland was able to see what
had become of his daughter; accounts say he was devastated and immediately forgot about the
information he was working so hard to uncover.
Ignoring Jakes hand, I grasp the stone folds and pull myself up on top of Hannahs rock,
face to face with a newer crack running straight down the middle. Tiny white deposits line the
inside of the fissure, breaking away from the black and green spackled grey drab. The three of us
sit on the last vacation Hannah Robinson had, between the peepers and the sighs of the passing
cars. The anniversary of her death is eerily close to Halloween, passing away at 27 years of age
on October 30, 1773, finally at home with her family and at peace with her father. However, our
journey hasnt come to a rest, as Jake has one last surprise left to show us.
After navigating our way down the massive stone and onto the chronic leaf floor of the
forest, Jake mentions a nearby Geocache hes familiar with, and by his enthusiasm, very fond of.
He summons a plastic container from a space under what was recently our perch. These hidden
packages of exchangeable trinkets are hidden throughout the world, placed and tracked by GPS
co-ordinates, sometimes in conjunction with familiar or famous landmarks, like in this case. We
prepare to make a little history of our own. I dig through my accumulated stack of twodimensional junk and swap my senior prom portrait for a sticker graphic of angry eyes and
scrawl my name in the annals of the damp guest log of the cache.

While I only had a friend and a few web pages to fill in the void left by the lack of
plaques on this tower, we had found something better, our own experience. All it took was a Jake
of all trades to get excited about the local history he had been so passionate about, igniting plans
during our celebratory Wendys run to traverse other plaqueless Rhode Island sites, in particular
the abandoned settlement Ramtail Factory, deemed haunted by the state census. Of course,
theres no reason to take their word for it. After all, whos to say that Hannahs spirit doesnt
revisit her rock?