Stirring Point

*This is a descriptive piece reflecting on one’s arrival at a special cabin in Vermont.

Route 14’s twisting pavement finally relents at a juncture near the old general store. Most drivers speed by, completely unaware that Eden is a mere mile and a half away. Responsibilities draw them elsewhere, distracting them with errands and burdens. For those in the know, however, an unassuming side road serves as a portal to another galaxy. Pure oxygen floods the lungs as stones and dust spray from the treads of warm tires. This is Valley Lake Road.

Beyond the Woodbury Grade School and the town’s library, the road cuts a path through thick forest and patchy marshland. Wheeler Hill demands the last push of effort up a gas-guzzling quarter-mile climb to Winston’s place. Winston, the man, is long gone—a memory of Dog Pond’s old guard. But his little red house still straddles the road’s apex, and its pastoral countenance is postcard-ready. Sheep graze the verdant hillside. Distant mountains pierce the plane of treetops. And just as quickly, the nose of the vehicle crests the point and tips like a seesaw. The grade is steep and gravity drags the vehicle down into a hairpin turn. Generations of feet have worn out brake pads here while navigating the pitched, washboard edges of the surface. In a moment, a small sign for a private camp road will signal a sharp right turn into a dense thicket of beech, birch, and maple trees. And here, amnesty from the madness of the world awaits.

The road is primitive but functional, and it instantly delivers a parade of memories. Running, biking, dog walks, tree chopping, rock drilling, family decision-making, fly swatting—it all happens here. And as the trees thin and the cove comes into view, the reflective surface of Dog Pond finally finds the eyes, as if the lake itself has been searching for them. Gazing upon the lake after many months away is like reopening a safe-deposit box from one’s youth.

Roots and rocks protrude from a natural guardrail on the road’s left side, while the stillness of the lake pins the vehicle’s right. The boat launch sits empty, a sign that husbands and wives, lovers and friends are back for the season. Swooping left, a final hill acts like the wall of a foxhole, protecting those on this side of the lake from the bullets and shrapnel of the world beyond. Here, around one last muddy turn, rests a timeless Shangri-La. Not the mythical Himalayan kingdom beckoning the imaginations of seekers for generations. Rather, a real one, available to touch between thumb and forefinger: an acre of land, right here, in the heart of Central Vermont.

Jaws unclench and shoulders relax when they arrive at the cabin. Contentment is evergreen and its benefits imbue every visitor. The moist air encourages deep exhales, sighs of relief, and moments taken. The Green Mountains demand it; Dog Pond demands it.

The firepit is sacred and functions as part alter, confessional, and pulpit. It welcomes all manner of sinners, promising redemption through humor, vulnerability, abandoned dreams, and new ideas. The stone blocks around the edges contain a lifetime of spirits that spring forth from the embers with the poker’s first stoke. Past friends, family members, lovers, and acquaintances all deposited pieces of their character in these cinders, and through new flames, their memories rise like a phoenix from the ashes.

The camp itself is the hardest home to leave. It’s the physical manifestation of equanimity. It shapeshifts to the needs of the visitor, reading the emotions on one’s face like the colors of a mood ring. Somber? Here’s a great book and a warm fire. Eager? Enjoy the rope swing or a dive off the dock. Anxious? A peaceful walk through the woods ought to do.

The lake itself is a dumping ground for the last bits of tension, smuggled deeply within the minds and muscles of those who visit. Dog Pond extracts trapped aggression, impatience and self-regard, plunging negative reactions into its tannic depths. A kayak ride releases all; a zip in the Monarch exhilarates the senses; an open swim heaves the chest and invigorates the skin.

Split wood, stack wood, and split more. Coffee, read, coffee. Swim, hammock, swim. Sit with others and hear their stories.

Listen to the loons call as the fire crackles through the quiet night. This is all Dog Pond asks.