The ghost town of Riceville has been something I've been interested in for quite a long time now. Back in 2012 when I first stumbled upon it, I was immediately intrigued by its history and the circumstances of its demise. In the 1860s, the F. Shaw and Brothers Company acquired a back extract works on the shore of Buffalo Stream in Township 39. The plant was extensive and included a boarding house for workers. After it changed hands sometime later, the Hancock Leather Company got its hands on it and Francis, James, and John Rice all began doing business out of the township, manufacturing sole leather by tanning raw buffalo hide shipped into the town. They set up a post office and a schoolhouse, and just like that, Riceville was born. It experienced a few years of life until 1905, when the tannery burned down and most of the residents of the village were quick to scatter to surrounding towns. By 1910, the town was completely abandoned.
This past Saturday (10/10/15) we all decided to head out to Riceville to get a few more pictures and accomplish some milestones we hadn't really gotten around to doing before. First of all, I had really wanted to cross the stream and get to the cemetery. Second of all, I wanted to hike the main road going through the town and see what we could find along the way. I'd also expressed some interest in getting better, higher resolution photos of some different features of the town to share with you all and to capture the town before it all eventually becomes one with nature (and it's getting there!)
This past Saturday (10/10/15) we all decided to head out to Riceville to get a few more pictures and accomplish some milestones we hadn't really gotten around to doing before. First of all, I had really wanted to cross the stream and get to the cemetery. Second of all, I wanted to hike the main road going through the town and see what we could find along the way. I'd also expressed some interest in getting better, higher resolution photos of some different features of the town to share with you all and to capture the town before it all eventually becomes one with nature (and it's getting there!)
That morning, I piled into the car with my partner, Nikki, and my cousin, Clayton. My mother, Monique, took the driver's seat and we were off. Making our way toward Central Maine, we worried about closed gates and bad roads. We wondered if my mother's Subaru could tolerate the rough unimproved paths at the very end of our journey. We cruised Route 9, knowing that our precious pavement would soon be stolen out from under us and replaced with an abrasive aggregate of crushed stone.
As we made it into Great Pond and close to the first gravel road we'd need to take, we crossed our fingers in hopes of the gate being open. It was! We turned onto the road, passing an old church. Surprisingly, the GPS was being a huge help, considering the remoteness of the area we were in. We slowly traversed roads designated only with a number. Eventually, we reached the Stud Mill Road, and met up with a friend of ours, Matt Michaud, with his father, Ed, and grandfather, Gordon, in tow.
Worried that Gene, a descendant of a Riceville resident, wouldn't show, we waited about an hour. After deciding he might already be there, we made our way through narrow graveled roads and eventually reached a road blanketed with long grass.
“That road right there would take you back toward Buffalo Stream," Gordon assured me, and we took the path. Slowly we made our way into the Baker Field. We were here.
As we made it into Great Pond and close to the first gravel road we'd need to take, we crossed our fingers in hopes of the gate being open. It was! We turned onto the road, passing an old church. Surprisingly, the GPS was being a huge help, considering the remoteness of the area we were in. We slowly traversed roads designated only with a number. Eventually, we reached the Stud Mill Road, and met up with a friend of ours, Matt Michaud, with his father, Ed, and grandfather, Gordon, in tow.
Worried that Gene, a descendant of a Riceville resident, wouldn't show, we waited about an hour. After deciding he might already be there, we made our way through narrow graveled roads and eventually reached a road blanketed with long grass.
“That road right there would take you back toward Buffalo Stream," Gordon assured me, and we took the path. Slowly we made our way into the Baker Field. We were here.
Gene was sitting there on his four wheeler. We all exchanged hellos, and he showed us some maps of the area and some photos that might have been taken at Riceville.
After some chatting, we split up and started out of the field. Matt and his family went with Gene down the path toward the far end of the field, and I went with Nikki and my family down the path closest to us. We walked through the woods, noting the rock piles at the sides of the road. The path meandered every which way, winding along its rough course to the lower field.
Eventually we all met up in the lower field, and began to look around. I darted around the landscape, attempting to find anything I possibly could. Gene made his way to an area under some evergreens.
“I think this is about where the skating rink was," he said, stumbling upon some bricks.
“I think this is about where the skating rink was," he said, stumbling upon some bricks.
After turning up nothing but scattered rocks and metal debris, I headed north, making my way through the dense alders that had overtaken what were once open fields. The going was tough, but when I least expected it, we found an open well about 20 feet across, surrounded by orange safety fencing.
After calling over my mother and Clayton to take pictures of the well, I heard some shouting from up the hill.
“We found a cellar!" Matt called excitedly. We soon followed suit to see exactly how large this thing was. To our surprise, it was massive! It sat below the main road leading into the town. Above the cellar was a small retaining wall. Inside the cellar was a massive stove piece.
“According to the map I have, the schoolhouse should be about here," Gene said.
“We found a cellar!" Matt called excitedly. We soon followed suit to see exactly how large this thing was. To our surprise, it was massive! It sat below the main road leading into the town. Above the cellar was a small retaining wall. Inside the cellar was a massive stove piece.
“According to the map I have, the schoolhouse should be about here," Gene said.
Stepping above the cellar to the old road, we stumbled upon a tanned buffalo hide and a shoe, with its weathering revealing numerous small tacks.
I decided to move north even further, with the prospect of crossing the stream and reaching the tannery in mind. The others soon followed suit. As the road edged more toward the stream, I stumbled upon a large pile of scattered hides being swallowed into the ground with every passing decade. Scattered about were pieces of metal debris. Laying there in the soft soil not too far from the hides was a wagon axle.
Pushing ahead through various obstacles such as fallen trees and small washouts, we eventually reached a piece of bare steel wire wrapped around a cedar tree.
“That's the telephone wire," Gene remarked. “If you look hard enough, you might be able to find some glass insulators."
“That's the telephone wire," Gene remarked. “If you look hard enough, you might be able to find some glass insulators."
Continuing onward, the road was fairly straight. There wasn't much to speak of on the side of the road at that point. It seemed like we had run out of things to see. However, I knew the cemetery must be close. As the road took a sharp left-hand bend, we all approached the rich, dark waters of Buffalo Stream.
Gene explained that the cemetery was a little ways beyond the stream. Without hesitation, I took off my shoes and socks, and rolled up my pant legs. My mother soon followed suit, carrying our cameras with her, and intermittently commenting about the cold. After a short time in the frigid water I had made my way across and so had my mother. We marched off down the trail, which at this point had become much more overgrown and unimproved. We walked, wondering when we'd see the cemetery. Almost out of nowhere, the cemetery appeared on the right hand side of the road, atop a knoll. Its white fence stood out from the background of thin evergreens.
Proceeding further, we noticed a distinct lack of headstones. At the far center of the cemetery, a large tree stood, bearing a sign designating this place as Riceville Cemetery.
Satisfied with our find, we headed back down the road toward the stream. As we approached the water, the smiling faces of those who didn't dare cross were looking back at us, eagerly waiting to see what we'd photographed.
“Oh, there was a fence!" Matt's father, Ed, exclaimed.
Gene eventually said that it was time for him to be heading on home. We thanked him for showing us around, and he was on his way. We walked the lonely road back to the center of town and after passing back by the foundation of the schoolhouse and entering the field, we all stopped for a break.
Gene eventually said that it was time for him to be heading on home. We thanked him for showing us around, and he was on his way. We walked the lonely road back to the center of town and after passing back by the foundation of the schoolhouse and entering the field, we all stopped for a break.
I made the adventurous move to brave the alders once again and go back to the ovens, a dilapidated stone structure which I had visited previously in 2012. Having not found them earlier in the journey, I made it a mission to go snap some photos and get some GPS coordinates. After making it through the dense overgrowth, I climbed up the foundation and sat proudly. Clayton soon followed and snapped a picture.
I walked around the foundation, snapping photos from all angles. As I rounded a corner, I noticed a prominent chimney.
We climbed inside and peered into the ovens. My mother had joined us at this point, and was climbing in to check out the ovens as well. She snapped a photo of the inside of a furnace.
As we left the ovens, I snapped one last photo of the oven wall.
It was getting to be noon and we were all hungry, tired, and sore from being hit by branches over and over. One by one we climbed the great hill leading from the center of town to the lower field and we made our way back to our vehicles. Off we went down the path, leaving Riceville to rest, lying in wait of another adventure.