Webb Cove in the Rain

Here we are again, finally, in Stonington. It’s a grey, rainy day, temperature in the mid-fifties, wind picking-up: a day much like some we had in Georgia in January. It’s not an inviting day to get out paddling, but my eyes keep wandering out over Webb Cove and I know how invigorating it would feel: the chilly water and wind, the waves bashing against granite. My mind wants to go, but my body says otherwise.

We arrived here at Old Quarry last night and moved the contents of our car into the apartment above the office. We’ve been making coffee and figuring out where stuff goes, looking outside thinking “should we paddle?” But I’m feeling worn-out, my limbs heavy and sore, a blister on my big toe still subsiding. It’s from the last week of play, and perhaps the last month of travel catching-up. We’ve been on a lake in New Hampshire, a family place where I haven’t spent much warm-weather time over the last dozen years. I was glad to be at the lake, and though it’s a nice place to paddle a kayak (and we did most days) I felt more inclined to hike in the mountains or try my newly-learned canoe-poling skills.

Actually, I spent more time there gardening, trimming brush on the point where, 25 years ago this August, Rebecca and I were married. I spent hours with loppers and shears, sometimes while standing in the water, trimming the undergrowth that was crowding-out the twisting mountain laurel with its snowy bunches of flowers. I’d tell myself I’d just cut away a few branches, and my focus would narrow into a meditative state: clip, clip clip, and onto the next. Hours would pass and I’d look out at the lake and the mountains and think “gee, I should go paddling.” Then I’d start trimming again. I guess, deep down, I’ve got some need to take care of a piece of ground. We felt it in Georgia, where I mowed the first lawn we’d had in 17 years, but resisted most urges to get into long-term landscaping. Rebecca and I have moved around a lot, but the point is the one piece of ground that we keep returning to.

But on Thursday I went hiking. I chose the Skookumchuck Trail trail because it ascends the 3000-plus feet to Mt Lafayette’s summit in 4.7 miles, rather than the more popular, but steeper trails that make the climb in a shorter distance. I wasn’t on top of my walking routine, and I’d hardly even walked up any hills since last fall. I imagined an easier walk, but in the first ten minutes of my hike, I knew that the summit, should I get there, would be hard-won. So I tried to slow down, pausing by the brook to take pictures of flowers. There was no one else on the trail.

I have hiked up Mt Lafayette many times since I was ten or eleven years old. The sixth-highest of New Hampshire’s White Mountains, Lafayette is the high point of the Franconia Ridge, a spectacular stretch of alpine tundra that drops steeply away to valleys on either side. Aside from the more gradual grade, the Skookumchuck Trail offers a less populated walk; only one other car was parked at the trailhead. After about three hours of quiet, solitary walking, I encountered the other hiker- a man a bit older than me who’d paused at timberline. We chatted for awhile and then I continued onto the ridge.

Lafayette’s summit was crowded. I ate my lunch, watching hikers arrive and pose for photos. I obliged a French-speaking couple who wanted pictures of themselves, but didn’t ask for the favor in return, thinking I didn’t need another shot of me on a mountaintop. Then I thought better of it and felt strangely self-indulgent and vain when I snapped a couple of selfies. After all, who knows when I might get there again?

The part I’m leaving out- and my excuse for including this story in the blog, is the pain. Going up that hill was hard work, and several painful spots had developed well before I reached the top. For the trip down, I used my trekking poles to reduce the impact on my knees, but a hot spot on my big toe officially turned to a blister that I felt with every step. It felt great to jump in the lake when I returned, but I knew I’d be feeling the hike for several days.

Add poling a canoe to the list, and it helps me, as I sit here looking out at the rain on Webb Cove, to inventory the various aches and pains. And it also helps me appreciate the efficiency of sea kayaking, perhaps explaining why it is a popular sport for so many of us who are realizing, bit by bit, that we’re not getting any younger.

The Lake

After our wedding (over 21 years ago) Rebecca and I got into a canoe and paddled-off. A symbolic gesture, our excursion gave the guests the opportunity to gather on the shore and make some noise before they went home. It should have been a clean getaway for us, but we hadn’t really planned it. We paddled-off and disappeared around another point where we couldn’t be seen. It felt just like any other day on the lake, except I wore a white linen suit and a brand-new band of gold, which felt like it might fall off my finger at any moment. Rebecca wore a home-made wedding dress, and that din of distant music and voices belonged to our family and friends. We sat back, shaded by the tall pines, and rested our paddles on the gunwales. Rebecca turned around and said “what now?”

Indeed. We’ve asked that question many times since: what now? Sometimes we need to just paddle away with no chart to guide us and no destination in mind. We've lived a few places since then, but we always find our way back to the lake. A century ago when Rebecca's great-grandfather built a house here, there seemed to be a tacit agreement among property owners; houses were set back in the woods with dark, bark-colored shingles and green roofs that blended with the treetops. There were no lawns or paved driveways. You used to be able to paddle along the shore, hardly aware of the houses you passed. When you looked down into the water, it was so clear you could see fish swimming among the granite boulders twenty feet down.

Much has changed. There’s always been access for hand-launched boats, but at some point a paved public boat ramp was built with a big parking lot for all the people who want to buzz around the lake in the motorized vessel of their choice. And those powerboats brought hitch-hikers- milfoil and zebra mussels, not to mention the more predictable by-products of motorized humans. There are new houses, some that make a nod to those shingle-style predecessors, but there’s nothing simple, utilitarian or modest about these weekend retreats. The water is no longer so clear. We seldom see fish, but they must still be there, judging from the fishermen who endlessly chug around. 

I was lucky to have seen the lake before these changes. Rebecca has known it her whole life, and her connection to it runs deep. She and her cousins have returned there most years, no matter where they’ve lived, and during some “in-between” winters we’ve even called it home. We were all married there- parents, sister, cousins, friends... us- always out on the Point, usually on a wooden platform covering the campfire pit. Ashes are scattered there.

So, going to the lake is as much a pilgrimage as recreation. It is big enough that it takes a few trips to see most of it. We tend to head-out to discover what draws us-on: the islands, a series of ledgy points or the “river” through town to another lake. Mountains rise-up in the background, and we know the view of the lake from each summit.

At this point though, I only get to the lake in cooler, less-crowded months. Summer renters help cover the maintenance and exorbitant property taxes, and our livelihood keeps me in Stonington for the summer. Rebecca spends much more time at the lake, while I hesitate to leave Stonington, and miss it while I’m away. Actually, it’s not Stonington so much as the ocean around it- the archipelago and the islands from Penobscot to Frenchman Bays. When I return, I welcome the feel of a swell passing beneath the hull, the salt spray on my face, and the limitless geography of the ocean.

But it’s always good to get to the lake. I’m torn between paddling along shore and hiking in the mountains, but when the morning sun shines on the Point, you get the feeling that there’s really no better place to be, so some days we just enjoy being there. It’s the same way when we get out there in our kayaks. We were there last week, and several times we stopped paddling just to take it in. Eventually, one of us would ask “what now?” As with our wedding day, it didn’t really matter: pick up the paddle, move forward, enjoy being here.