Another view of the two rivers coming together, taken from Route 30. If ever there was a place to really feel the qi in the universe (ok, let’s stick to New England), this would be it.
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This place was a touch of heaven yesterday, a Monday in mid-November, with the temperature a balmy 65 degrees and nary a cloud in the sky. It’s where the Rock River joins the West River, to flow eventually into the CT River in Brattleboro. The area shown here draws a huge crowd of visitors in the summer, and has finally received official designation via a road sign on Route 30: “Recreational Area”.
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Night falls quickly in mid autumn here; the extended twilight – so sublime just three months ago – barely remembered.
Now, there’s a chill in the air before the sun even sets, and we readily head indoors – to light and warmth – ceding the dark to what roams the nighttime vastness of northern New England.
But oh our wild hearts! And so we are bound, to pause at the door, and reach back to the landscape, for all those things a hearth and home simply cannot contain.
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Taken outside the self-service farm stand at the Chandler Pond Farm. Reflecting our better natures, the money box was not locked. A big thank you to the farm folks there, not only for the beautiful pumpkins (I bought the next to largest size for $6.00), but also for your faith and trust in our better selves.
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There are any number of mobile homes, trailers and campers scattered across the north country landscape, though perhaps fewer than a decade ago. Many of the larger ones appear to be primary homes. The smaller ones seem only intermittently used: weekend getaways or hunting camps. This one looks to be a vintage Airstream Travel Trailer, ready for the open road.
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Title compliments of my friend Mike Hamer, who grew up in this area and from whom I first heard the phrase “the fabled birches of Island Pond”. Other views (in different weather) here and here.
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This place has one of the great community bulletin boards in all of New England, and a wonderful ambiance as well. It’s right in the center of Johnson, and yes, has some good food and coffee, too.
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Vermont poet David Budbill – whom I never met and know only through his poems, a birthday tribute earlier this year, and the stories of a mutual friend – recently passed away. He said that stacking firewood was one of the great joys of life. A NYT obituary is here.
I suspect he would immediately understand that the wood in this photo was not put up for personal use, but for commerce. From what I glean from his poems, his firewood aesthetic was more akin to ours when I was growing up: the wood stacked neatly in a barn, with kindling in a separate adjoining room. Our stacks were easily eight feet high at the start of the season. I have no idea how many cords we used, but it easily could have been six a season; the wood stove was the only source of heat in a two story house up until I was ten or so.
There really is nothing like wood heat to take you through a long winter.
Rest in peace, David, and may your continued journey be filled with Light and Love.
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