Beaver Pond

January 11, 2011 | Leave a Comment

You had to know just where to pull over on the side of the ancient mountain dirt road. Just which two trees to walk between to be on the right path. The path to Beaver Pond–about a mile back in the deep woods. Maples and basswoods and undergrowth , and the trail winding left, then right, up, then down. You knew you were close when it looked brighter up ahead. Then, the pond. Proud, desolate, ringed in dense woods right down to the water’s edge. Sparkling water like diamonds. I had camped there in every season from summer to winter–experienced all its moods, recharged with its peace. This trip, I was much older. Much. Just up from the water was the round rock fireplace we had built to cook on 40 years before. The same wire grill straddled it that we put on it then. Very quiet. Echos from the past of voices, crackling fires, fishing forays. Now, absolute silence, save the breeze. The memories seemed almost–what?–made up? No, they were real, just old.




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