King of the Hill

A Rhode Islander summits his state's tallest point.

By Peter Mandel '79

I've got big news for all you serious outdoor types: Despite what you may have heard, Maine's Mt. Katahdin isn't New England's most challenging climbing adventure. Neither are Washington or Mansfield.

No, if you want a true climbing adventure, you need to head to Jerimoth Hill in Rhode Island, the pride of the Foster township near the Connecticut border. With an elevation topping off at 812 feet, Jerimoth may seem like, well, a walk in the park, but if you try to tackle it, you'll discover that while endurance may not be an issue, ingenuity certainly is.

You see, Jerimoth is a privately owned hill. Brown University has the deed to the very top, while the land around it—and access from nearby Route 101—is controlled by a local family that, to put it mildly, keeps its eye out for trespassers.

A national climbing outfit has negotiated five, annual, open-access dates with the owners, but that still leaves 360 days of the year when the state's peak is off-limits. So what is a guy to do when he lives in Rhode Island and is in a climbing mood?

It's early summer, and I'm determined to ascend my home state's highest peak. The next open date is more than a month away, and that just won't do. I've considered bushwhacking up there in the dark, but I've been warned that the landowners have motion detectors in place along the trail. And guns. So I load up my car for a daytime excursion, thinking that once I'm there surely I can reason with the powers that be to allow me passage to the top.

I swing onto 101 west, the truck route to Hartford, and almost immediately have to fight with tractor-trailers and a Ben and Jerry's ice cream van that thinks it owns the road. This is an area of wooded hills, not mountains, and one mound looks pretty much as modest as the next. In fact, Rhode Islanders will tell you, tongue in cheek, that the Johnston landfill beats out any hill in the state when it comes to height, and while I don't get a glimpse of this man-made pile as I motor into Johnston, the air is pungent, reeking of refuse.

I nearly miss the sign announcing "Rhode Island's Highest Point," and have to slam on the brakes before pulling off by the side of the road. There isn't much of a view from here, but I do find some pinecones, an abandoned tar-paper cabin, and an FCC radio tower. I then spy two signs. The first reads:

"NO TRESPASSING. There is no public access to the Highpoint. This area is privately owned. We Will Prosecute Violators."

The second: "Jerimoth Hill: Elevation 812. Highpoint of Rhode Island." The fine print then catches my eye:

"Jerimoth Hill is heavily wooded, has no views at all, and is only about five feet higher than the highway."

My thoughts are racing, as I return to my car and pop the latch to check the circumference of my trunk. Unless I have misunderstood, a few loads of loam stand between me and my quest to ascend Rhode Island's highest point.

I know what I must do. If I can't get to the peak, I will create a new one. On public land. Right by the side of the road. I will go and get my work gloves and a wheelbarrow. I will be a hero. Mt. Mandel, they will call it.

It may be a smelly operation. This, I know. And it may take two or three trunk loads, or even more.

But it is early in the day.

And the Johnston landfill is not far.