Adam

Blonde # 1 stood to one side, aloof as ever, as Blonde # 3 gave a fan’s impassioned intro to Sol Jibe, whose Arabic-tinged and clarinet-embellished piece called “Rhumba” we’d just enjoyed. Which sounded to me like a riff on Ferron’s “Shadows on a Dime”, hence the query to # 1, passed on to # 3 – the bartendress – who handled all CD’s. Except that neither blonde knew Ferron, and nor, apparently, did Sol Jibe. But anyway … The fresh rapport with # 3 finally helped warm # 1 to us somewhat – how could she not come around?  We were the only ones in the place – and she even made an effort to cajole us into dessert. Twist our arm.

But wait. Multiple blondes? Ordering food? Oh yeah …

Rewind.

After we blew Day One trying (and failing) to find access to this-year’s destination of the persuasively-named Enchanted Pond – access convenient enough for our twenty-Sherpa truckload, that is – we headed back up the many miles of gravel to an arguable counterpart, Misery Pond, chosen both for its end-of-a-long-day ease of access, and the name. But there’s easy, and then there’s easy. Misery lies only a little past the first bend in about 10 miles of vertically-rolling but otherwise arrow-straight, two-opposing-logging-trucks-and one-howling-with-fright-pickup-truck-between-them-wide gravel road. The “driveway” is only about 20’ long. That’s it, and you’re there. We were so aghast at its proximity to this north Maine superhighway (and lack of a picnic bench) that we investigated access to a site purportedly somewhere out across Cold Stream Pond a few short miles away, but we couldn’t be sure we knew where it was out there once we made Cold Stream’s shores, and dusk had made its intentions clear, so we returned to Misery, at least for the night — rights to the option to relocate on the morrow retained.

A fine first night, with a fine first dinner, finally out in the woods and out of the truck. Okay, some cons — without Q’s magic, all our firewood seemed to have been treated with some sort of noxious retardant, smoking abundantly without sustaining flame; and the makeshift table I cobbled out of the bones of someone’s campchairs and lids to Mike’s Rubbermaid tubs lashed to a tree for support offered all of 5 square feet of highly compromised semi-horizontal surface that was nowhere convenient to the fire pit. But we’re not whiners. Not sitting in our camp chairs, Dark-n-Stormies in our mitts, and many go-with-its heaped onto steaming bowls of Schreib’s most excellent vegetarian chili. Mike had his nest feathered out on the point overlooking the lovely waters of Misery Pond, and Schreib and I looked forward to a night on our princess-and-the-pea rigs inside our new tent, which afforded the novel experience of standing up full height in its capacious and invigoratingly-colored interior. Life was good. We lingered long, nursing our uncooperative “fire” and chatting.

The next day began with the ubiquitous gloomy grey weather we know all too well, and we rigged a handsome tarp to keep the anticipated rain off our fire pit and firewood. After a leisurely breakfast eaten quite late – we’d stayed up past 11:30 and had slept in well beyond our abilities at home – we pondered our options. The morning’s logging trucks had rumbled by what inside the tent sounded like mere inches from our heads, and the lack of a picnic table was additionally annoying. Even if just for the doing of something, we decided to go investigate Cold Stream Pond in more detail, see if we wanted to relocate. We retied the canoe onto the roof rack (Mike and Mark had used it to gather firewood on the shores), gathered a few supplies (most of which were still in the bed of the truck) and some snacks (the first lunch already blown off), and set out. As it started to rain.

By the time we got to that other shore, sprinkles had become steady drizzle, but returning to sit around under the tarp was hardly appealing, so we skipped a few stones, put on our raingear, clambered into the canoe, and set off across the pond. We were headed into the wind, which was swirly and pushed us about some, but no real whitecaps were forming, so crossing was just a matter of effort. Despite the diminished visibility we could see across the extent of the water, and behind us the hulls of boats parked at the put-in made a clearly discernible target for the return trip. Paddling, even in the rain, was comforting familiarity, the activity and new places to explore welcome. We had a site to scout, maybe islands to explore.

But each likely landmark proved just another tree or rock, not the beachhead of a site, each possible passage a blind cove, pushing us back out to round what were all peninsulas, never islands. The site should’ve been roughly midway, from our memory of the map (which we’d left back at camp given the rain), but we got to the far end of Cold Stream with no hint of a site. Good thing we hadn’t sought out this purported option the night before …

And what an end it was. Dead snags on the shores bespoke a sort of wasteland, and though the vistas might have been compelling on a blue-sky day, the grey skies came down to the surrounding shores and seemed to confine this pond to miserable solitude. Even were there a viable site somewhere around here, we weren’t relocating. So we drifted a bit in the rain with the winds at our backs, and then headed back along the shores just to see if we’d missed anything.

All the way back into the first cove, well past where the site was likely to be, we spied some orange ribbon blazes and tied off. Just inside the woods in deep moss was a piece of rebar sticking just out of the ground with a bright orange plastic cap such as are used at jobsites to prevent impalements. What could possibly be marked here by ribbons and an iron stake driven into the ground … ? Mike noticed something even odder – a clear line of sight through several hundred yards of woods. Feeling a bit like Hansel and Gretel following breadcrumbs laid by another whose intentions were unknown, we set off.

Into a clearcut. Not exactly the payoff or deep mystery for which we’d hoped. As it turned out, from later examinations of our map, the line-of-sight likely marked a township division, kept clear by surveyors. The undisturbed moss made it unlikely any loggers used this passage for access to the pond. Nothing before us compelled us to forward progress, so we tossed candied-ginger shortbread cookies to each others’ gaping mouths, sipped at a flask of Scotch, generally lollygagged awhile, and headed back, having even forgotten to scavenge firewood, our trip essentially merely time killed. No treasures or discoveries, barely any exercise. Just a protracted way to get wet.

Turns out the adventure was back at camp all along – we just needed to get away while it put on its party dress.