I'm not the type who is easily spooked, but my experience exploring the Indian Council Caves of northern Connecticut still leave me cringing to recall.
First I should explain that the Indian Council Caves are not truly "caves". Actually they are the result of several massive rocks and boulders breaking off of the overhanging rock ledges and piling atop one another. Connecticut is richly forested and dotted with several mountains, so seeing boulders piled at the base of mountains is quite common due to the extreme weather conditions which wear away at the rock's stability and cause cracking and tumbles. But this location is fairly old and has some lore to it, differentiating it from others like it. This region of Northern Connecticut was populated some time ago by a Native American tribe who made this mountain side their home.
Stories tell of battles between tribes here, of spirits of Native American warriors who still wander the forest, and upon close observation some traces of the long gone tribe can still be found here. Stones worn away from where women would grind corn into flour can be spotted along an overgrown trail, and a small burial ground near the peak of the mountain is said to contain hundreds of bodies in it, though the true number of dead buried there is unknown. The most interesting draw of this location is of course the "caves". The boulders at the base of the mountain are stacked and leaned in such a way that create several entrances and tunnels, many large enough for several people to walk through. Local legend claims that these small caves were used for certain rituals and council meetings.
The location is steeped in history and I couldn't resist the opportunity to see the site for myself. On Halloween day October 31st of 2015, my father and I trekked blindly into the forest. The hike lasted nearly an hour and a half before we began to see signs of what we had been looking for. We found the grinding stone on the ground beside an old trail, a smoothed out center in the stone showed where it had been used for grinding down corn for flour. We also found some old stone foundations which where practically overgrown and would have been easy to miss if one didn't have a keen eye for ruins. But what we had come for rested at the base of the mountain on the opposite side. Scaling down the rough stone ledge, through several trickling fresh water springs, and through thick bushes and brambles we climbed down into the valley between the cliffs. Here we saw the stone piles and could spot several openings in the rocks where one could imagine the Native children climbing through to play, or the larger caves where council meetings were held.
Eager to explore this new discovery after a fatiguing hike, I hurried ahead of my father into the opening of the nearest moderately sized cave opening. The ceiling of the cave was low so I had to crouch to enter it, but even being crouched the backpack I wore scraped against the hard rough stone. Sliding the backpack off my shoulders, I rested it against the wall of the cave and continued to crawl deeper into the cave, pulling a small flashlight out from my pocket and flicking it on. I remember shouting to my father who was still standing outside of the caves gazing curiously inside from a distance. I began to describe the cave, saying how deeply they intertwined and how sediment had collected on the walls of the cave from the years of spring water running over the stones from the mountain ledge overhanging the valley. The walls and ground were damp and the cave was cool despite the warm autumn air of the afternoon. But these conditions were the perfect environment for a very real threat, which had not occurred to me.
As I was was exploring the interior of the cave, I suddenly felt a tug on my ankle. Shining my light back over my shoulder I noticed my dad tugging on my leg with a bizarre expression. When I didn't react to his attempted warning, he again tugged on my ankle and dragged me backwards by it. By now I understood that something was wrong, but I was confused what was going on. When I was back out of the cave and in the sunlight, he looked at me severely and pointed a finger back inside up at the stone ceiling with the single word, "Look". Shining my flashlight upwards, I realized the cause of his alarm. Hanging from the ceiling were countless, golf ball sized, white cottony sacks hanging from the ceiling. And protecting the egg sacks were thousands upon thousands of large green spiders crawling atop and over one another on the ceiling, occasionally losing their grip and dropping down onto the cave floor only to scuttle away into the darkness. But it was only from the safety of the sunlight, shining my flashlight into the cave and cringing in disgust at this display, that a realization struck me. I had left my backpack in the cave.
Dread and revulsion made my heart race and my stomach lurch as I stooped and raced back into the damp cave opening. Painfully aware of the thousands of wriggling, scrambling, green abominations dangling mere inches above my head, I seized a firm grip on my backpack and clambered out of the cave clumsily. Once out in the sunlight again, I brushed the stray spiders from off of my backpack and cowered away from the remaining cave openings, expecting to find more of the same little nightmares. Deciding we had seen enough to satisfy our curious natures, we turned back and hiked home.
The site is truly remarkable and steeped in history. I encourage anyone interested in Native American history to visit this location. But I would recommend visiting in the late autumn when the cold frost has killed off the spiders, or be prepared to have your nightmares haunted by that image for years to follow.
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