You could hear it coming from a ways. The steady carbon spit of an old engine puttering in the advance. The slouched silhouetted figure, relaxed, yet aimed. The water rolled of the bow in small unfolding waves, moving away and then returning to the stillness of the surroundings. There was a bug or two overhead, no bother, but enough to signal mid-summer on Lake Champlain.
Driving through the Adirondacks, in the northern half of New York State truly opened his eyes to the many unknown gems remaining to be absorbed on this magnificent continent. Read about, but not lived or traveled, is simply not enough to really enjoy and appreciate this neck of the woods. Makes him wonder what we do with the rest of our time.
Crossing by ferry, he landed in Vermont and headed up the shore in search of a square to lay his head. Old, sturdy, and well kept homes, or “camps” as their called, are sparingly scattered about, and owned by people who have the same character as the homes. They’ve seen a winter or two.
One agreed, and soon he was tented down along the shore for what would be a week or so. He had work scheduled locally, 8 mile or so into town, but it was the sunsets he needed and cherished. No, really, this was different.
When the sun sets on a large fresh body of water, being absorbed into the mountain green, the atmosphere belches a plume of cool fresh air, settling over a disco dance of reflections. There are no sounds to distract. Almost.
He came by each evening at the exact same time. And each time, as the long canoe with small outboard finally became tangent, after a hypnotizing approach, the old man, who so far this week had refused to look shoreline, out of some notion of respect, realized that he was sitting there on the shore, in the same spot, also at the same time. The old spirit heard the conscious meeting of minds and souls, turned his head slowly, lifted his hand to his brim, tipped his skull cap, and acknowledged allegiance to it all, and to one another.
