I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

Every early evening since the start of summer, I’ve been creeping like a trespasser to a stretch of woods along the Androscoggin River in Lewiston. It’s roughly a two-mile swath of woods and water, and for the better part of the last decade, it’s been my favorite place in all of Lewiston — in all of Androscoggin County if I want to be honest about it. That awesome woodland beneath the Veterans Bridge used to be my playground.

Not any more. This semi-secret place has been discovered and we all know what happens next. Hammers and saws, skidders and backhoes, rules and regulations. The network of trails near Tall Pines, once the favored place for homeless men in tents, school-skippers and sneak-away lovers, has been liberated.

I’ve watched the progress from high atop a hill. I stand there like that Native American fellow from the old commercials, a single teardrop rolling down his cheek.

Where once there were tall trees to hold in the shade, there are now vast open spaces ablaze with sun and heat.

Where once were hills and valleys, rocks and roots, the trail has been leveled, laid flat by men who measured precisely and then rolled out their machinery.

It was once wild down there by the river; pure nature, unrestrained. Now it’s a man-made place with even lines and rigid order. The vagabonds, fishermen and random wanderers have been cast out. The once narrow and snaking trail is as wide as a road now and it proceeds along the river in an orderly line, another highway connecting one point to another.

It used to be lawless wilderness out there, but soon signs will go up to proclaim The Rules. Do this, don’t do that. This is allowed, but this is forbidden. Fines may apply. Trespassers will be prosecuted to the fullest and blah blah blah.

Goodbye, Eden. Hello, Progress.

I know this is a simple expansion and that it was a matter of time. I know that more people may be able to enjoy the area (although they won’t, due to the curse I cast upon it) now that it’s been ripped open like a Christmas gift. I know that deeds have been signed, permits secured, checks cashed, deals brokered, hands shaken. You can’t fight City Hall, brother, and developers aren’t lightweights, either.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though. I like it even less than the discovery that the U.S. government had taken over the vast woodlands behind the Waterville armory, an area where I spent most of my troubled adolescence. I like it even less than finding that Scum Field, in the same city, was mowed down to make way for a housing development. I like it even less (although it’s close) than learning that Devil’s Chair, once wild and forbidden, is now open to the public, with regular hours and more rules than you can shake a stick at.

The spiffy new walking path may draw those who prefer to roam a well-regulated landscape rather than a natural one, sure — lots of people prefer KOA to genuine wilderness, after all. And they’ll never even know what they’re missing. They’ll be walking on smooth pavement without the challenges of roots and rocks, streams and ditches underfoot.

They’ll stroll beneath the fluorescent glow of artificial light and they’ll be following the rules of man rather than the rules of nature. Surveillance cameras will record their every step and police will chase away the undesirables. That trail along the Androscoggin will gain a hundred tons of asphalt and lose every bit of its charm.

Sour grapes? You betcha. The world’s secret places are vanishing by the hour and this was my favorite of all. There used to be a couple of junked out cars down there staring out of the weeds like quiet, rusty ghosts. The little trickle of stream crossing the midway point would turn into a raging torrent following rain storms and crossing it was a challenge.

On nice days, you’d always find someone with a six-pack of beer and a fishing pole down by the water to wave to. The hardcore runners from Bates loved the place because jogging that untamed path was a challenge and a workout. Occasionally, you’d stumble on an amorous pair in a semi-nude state rolling around in the tall grass. That’s OK, we’re all adults here. The unpredictable nature of the area was a large part of its charm.

It’s all gone now and I blame myself. I made the mistake of thinking of the place as paradise and we all know how that turns out, too. Like Don Henley said in that obscure old song: “You call some place paradise, kiss it goodbye.”

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