A Mill River Walk from the Pawtucket Platform

The newest railroad platform in Rhode Island stands a ten minute walk from the state's oldest working waterfall. That coincidence is the whole excuse for this route, and I find it a good one. On the fourth of March I rode the morning train north to walk the mill district.

Pawtucket built America's first water powered cotton mill, and the river still runs through its middle. The loop I walked covers about two and six tenths miles in a little under an hour. It is nearly level, which the mill builders would have appreciated for their own reasons. March adds the soundtrack, because the thaw turns the falls up to full volume.

Bring a windbreaker even on a mild day, since the river corridor makes its own drafts. The surfaces are kind: concrete, old brick, and a stretch of boardwalk. Puddles collect near the boat ramp after rain, and March owns a lot of rain.

Off the platform

The station is all fresh concrete and long ramps, set down between the old thread mill blocks. Its platforms stand high, so you arrive with a rooftop view of the neighborhood you are about to walk. North beyond the fence rises a giant brick clock tower, still keeping approximate time. I checked my watch against it and decided we were both close enough.

Note the printed timetable at the platform head before you descend, because trains here keep gaps. Midday service runs about once an hour in each direction on the spring card. The loop fits inside a single gap with time to spare for the falls. Missing a train in Pawtucket is not a tragedy, but knowing the next one is a comfort.

Take the main ramp down and follow Goff Avenue east, walking with the morning traffic. The street bends past parking lots and a firehouse, nothing scenic, everything useful. Within six minutes you hear the river before any part of it appears. It sounds like a crowd two blocks away, which in a sense it is.

Brick, and more brick

Exchange Street delivers the district's thesis in one long wall of nineteenth century brick. The mills run four and five stories, with granite sills and windows in tireless ranks. I tried counting panes in a single wall, reached ninety six, and let the record stand. Whole decades of this city clocked in behind those sashes, weaving thread into wages.

Look for the small doors cut inside the big freight doors, like letters inside envelopes. Look also for the painted ghost signs fading politely above the third floors. One names a thread company three owners gone, its letters the color of weak coffee. Brick keeps every promise made to it, which is more than most walls manage.

At the foot of Exchange Street the river finally shows itself, wide and pewter and busy. Turn right onto Roosevelt Avenue and keep the water on your left hand. The art deco tower of city hall stands ahead like a radio set from 1936. Between you and it, the falls are already throwing mist over the railing.

The falls under Main Street

The Main Street bridge crosses directly over the falls, and its sidewalk is the front row. In March the river drops about sixteen feet in one continuous shrug of brown water. Meltwater from the whole valley funnels through here, and the noise settles into your coat. I stood eleven minutes by the rail and heard nobody's phone, including mine.

Just downstream, the yellow clapboard mill from 1793 sits on its lawn like a schoolhouse. Beside it stands a stone mill with a bell cupola, and between them runs the old raceway. Water still slides into that channel, obedient after two hundred thirty years. The lawn path lets you walk the raceway's edge and read the millstones parked in the grass.

Under the bridge deck you can pick out the stone arches of 1858, patched but proud. Three bridges show from this one spot, counting the concrete spans upstream and down. Gulls patrol the seams where currents braid, hunting whatever the thaw dislodges. A cormorant surfaced with breakfast while I watched, then filed it away and dove again.

A fish ladder climbs the dam's far side in concrete switchbacks, empty this early. The spring run arrives in April, when the harbor sends its herring upriver on schedule. A laminated card by the overlook explains the ladder with the patience of a librarian. I like a city that builds staircases for fish and then labels them.

Boardwalk and the turn home

South of the falls a boardwalk hangs off the bank, level and sociable. The river widens here and calms down, embarrassed by its performance upstream. Plates of gray ice spun slowly in the eddies, touring the same pool all morning. Across the water the mills repeat themselves in reflection, twice the brick for no extra effort.

Halfway along, the boardwalk widens into a small pier with benches and three flagpoles. Two men were fishing off the end of it, coolers shut, expectations reasonable. We traded nods, agreed the water was high, and left the rest to the river. A minute of that kind of talk can warm a whole gray morning.

The boardwalk ends near the Division Street bridge, which is your signal to cross back. Its iron rail runs cold enough in March to make a case for gloves. From midspan you get the route's last long view: falls, towers, and clock. Then School Street climbs gently away from the water, the only grade worth naming.

The return runs up Main Street and over to Broad, through the workday version of downtown. A bakery vented warm air across the sidewalk, and I slowed down on purpose. Ten more minutes of ordinary blocks deliver you back to the station ramps. My train south left at eleven oh four, and the clock tower saw me off.

Worth the walk

This route is industry told at walking speed, and the telling is level the whole way. You get a working waterfall, three bridges, one raceway, and acres of honest brick. The train makes it an easy half day from Providence without a car.

A few fair warnings, offered plainly, because March water plays rough with walkways. The falls overlook and the boardwalk carry mist in cold snaps, and planks can be slick. Stroller wheels manage fine except on the lawn paths by the old mills. Anyone who dislikes traffic noise should know Roosevelt Avenue keeps a steady hum.

Go in March if you want the river at concert pitch and the mist on your face. Go in June if you want the lawn and a slower conversation with the raceway. Either month, the arithmetic holds: one platform, one waterfall, ten minutes between them. Few walks in this state pay out so much history per step.

Nell Harrow, founder and editor. Walks out of Providence, writes on the way back.