Post by Grubb.
Taking the last hike of the day (Sunday…I think…whatever…) we went out the back door of the inn where we’re staying and headed up into the woods.
It was late afternoon and no one was on the trail. Just us and the trees and the mossy stones. The root-gnarled path took some nimble footwork, but after about a mile we threaded our way through a thicket of spruce trees to find ourselves on the shore a quiet unpeopled pond. I could sense Thoreau silently clapping. It looked like a lake to me, but a weathered gray wooden marker said it was Hadlock Pond, so I’ll defer to the Brobs.
There was a sign warning people to keep off the pond indicating it was a reservoir of drinking water. No boats, no fishermen. Except for a few houses poking out of the woods in the offshore distance, it felt like we were in an unspoiled wilderness, alone. All I needed was to lie back on the mossy bank with a floppy hat shading my eyes and, going back in time (albeit in a new dimension), I would be thinking the sublime thoughts of a Transcendentalist enjoying an early-eighteenth century idyll.