Before tourists swam here, the state owned this shoreline. They had a darker purpose. In the early 1900s, the property belonged to a nearby institution for children deemed feeble-minded. It was a working farm. Forced to labor, residents cleared heavy rocks, milked dairy cows, and harvested crops to feed hundreds of patients up the hill. They built stone walls. Look closely in the woods and you can still see those granite boundaries today.

The school finally shut down in 1991. Decades of abuse lawsuits and changing medical practices forced the gates closed. So, the trees grew back. By the late nineties, the state converted the lakeside acres into a public space. History hides in the dirt. Hikers often trip over rusted iron pipes and crumbling concrete footings. Those are the remnants of old silos. Just beyond the current boundary lines, a quiet cemetery holds hundreds of unclaimed patient graves. It is a sobering reminder. Today, mountain bikers race down the old dirt carriage roads, kicking up dust where patients once labored.