Dusk at Knight’s Pond
Henri put a wrinkle in my well-crafted vacation plans. Slated to spend five days on an island in Maine just as the storm passed through, I decided to pivot. In truth, the forecast did not look too dastardly, but it was hard to be certain and it seemed foolish to risk the possibility of being trapped on an island in a hurricane.
My friend Peggy, Lola, and I had spent most of the prior week hiking coastal trails in Downeast Maine before two days harborside in Rockland. That good dose of the seaside landscape whetted my appetite for soaking in the island’s salty air and rocky shores. But instead of heading to the ferry dock after dropping Peggy at the airport, Lola and I traveled inland. Rather than enjoying the cadence of island life, I’d be tucked into New Hampshire’s lakes region. I would also gain the pleasure of another dear friend’s company so this was not a bad consolation prize, but I still had a sense of missing out on a special experience.
With time to spare before checking in to a quickly secured Airbnb spot, Lola and I climbed a nearby mountain with sweeping views of Lake Winnapesaukee and then found ourselves charmed by the dockside happenings in Wolfeboro, “the Oldest Summer Resort in America.” I even discovered a spot that served fresh haddock sandwiches, my new-found favorite lunch.
When we arrived at the little house not far from town, the host was finishing up the preparations for our stay and we discussed local spots to check out. He recommended a nearby hike around a small pond. After cleaning up from the morning hike, I was tempted to stay horizontal in the cozy little cabin but decided a bit more fresh air was the wiser choice with two days of rain on the horizon. I wasn’t expecting much more than a little walk in the park.
What I found was so much more. The first sight of Knight’s Pond opened up a half-mile from the parking lot, the light of day’s end reflecting off the water, the surrounding trees aglow. I was struck by the intimate beauty of the scene before us, as if we had discovered a private wonderland, tucked away and hidden. Stepping among boggy streams and mossy boulders as we circled the pond, there were glimpses at every turn of water and trees soaked in soft light. Birds called all around us, brightly colored mushroom popped against the bright green backdrop, a lone heron stood stoically in the marsh. This place was soaking into me, the sights and sounds feeding a part of me that needs the healing forces of nature. Earlier in the day, I had been so eager for the grand, broad vistas of the mountaintop, but this was the place I needed, the place that touched my soul. I did not want the hike to end, but with darkness approaching there was no choice. We hurried a bit through the final bit of forest to reach the car with enough light.
Over dinner and my evening rituals the sense of wonder remained. I set my alarm for 5:00 the next morning, eager to return and experience the pond at first light. I struggled to wake up in the morning, but after some strong coffee I was on my way.
As the day slowly dawned, I saw there would be no golden light on this visit. The sky was a blanket of thick fog and gray clouds. Arriving back at the spot where I had been seduced just 12 hours before, I knew that if this were my first visit my reaction would have been less enthusiastic. And yet, as I finished my morning loop around the pond, I decided to circle one more time, having once again found comfort and energy in the rhythms of this place and gladdened by the mysteries that first brought me to its shores on a golden summer evening.
