I
already had my excuse lined up, just in case I woke up to the tapping on
driver's side window by an officer of the law. I would tell him that I had been
in the area, had been looking for a hotel or some kind of a place to stay, and
was surprised to find nothing. After a while, I was simply too tired to go on,
and just had to stop. That was the
responsible thing, right? Right!?
I saw the gas
station there in the dark, but only the second time around. It was so dark,
that my eyes had not caught it the first time around. Even the second pass, I
almost passed it by without noticing it.
What
was the worst that he could do after that? Send me away? Give me a ticket,
even, perhaps?
Sure,
there was a risk, but I thought it was worth it. After all, what were the
chances that somebody would find me there, in perhaps the one place in the
immediate area where cars were expected to be parked overnight?
So,
I pulled into the darkened service station. It was deliciously dark, and seemed
promising. It was a little unnerving, admittedly, when the motion sensor lights
came on, but I continued on. What choice did I have?
There
was a spot open between a car, and a bigger truck, that would have blocked the
car from view by the nearby road, which was tempting. But as I was looking, I
noticed a much darker area behind the station, with more spaces to park.
Obviously, this deserved more of my attention, and so that is what I gave it.
Much like the entire
area, it was very dark. There were no city lights to be seen. No lights from a
mall or din from a nearby highway. Nope, none of that. This place felt truly
like the countryside, like the middle of nowhere. During my search for a
decent, adequate place to sleep, it seemed that I was in the middle of a
mixture of woods and darkened farm fields. The area was too modern to be
reminiscent of the days when Thoreau and Emerson graced the local area with
their presence, yet for someone from suburban New Jersey , this was incredibly quiet. A few
cars passed on the road, maybe at the rate of two or three every fifteen or so
minutes. Maybe. But I was hoping that I would not be awake to count just how
many cars passed by in the later hours in the middle of the night. Fatigue was
quickly overtaking me, and I really did need to close my eyes and get some
sleep.
And sleep I did.
It was a bit awkward at first, and every car that passed surely must be the cop
that would investigate the lot for some intruder like me. At one point, I heard
this kind of banging noise, and rose up to see what it was, if I could see
anything. Nothing there, but I distinctly had heard some weird kind of banging
noise. Then, there was some weird shadow or something that I caught out of the
corner of my eye. I turned, but again, there was absolutely nothing there. Just
the dark night, nothing stirring. I might as well have been the only thing
awake in that corner of the world at the moment. Of course, my thoughts raced
with the worst possibilities, since my 21st century
mind conditioned me to think up the wildest horror movie scenarios. I quickly
turned to face the back of the car, half expecting to see some deranged lunatic
trying to sneak up on me, about to make his move.
I
tried to force this out of my mind, and settled back down; shut my eyes for a
few moments. But that was all that it took before that strange noise again. I
sprang back up, and scanned the dark and unfamiliar terrain chosen for my abode
for at least one fortnight. Finally, I spotted it. Some creature, probably a
raccoon, was trying to grab some grub from the trash compactor.
My
mind eased a bit. I relaxed a bit, and settled back down. Noticing the time (it
was now well past midnight), the urgency of catching some sleep was growing.
Knowing that some mechanics arrived to their jobs very early, I had set the
alarm for about 5:30am. This may have been overkill, but it seemed to err on
the side of caution, and not risk oversleeping, and being woken up by someone
who might accuse me of trespassing. So, that would be the time the phone alarm
would sound, and that was less than five hours away! Not much sleep, and I was
surely going to be exhausted in the morning, and likely for the rest of the day
as well, surely. I needed sleep.
My
mind was restless for quite a while that night, and I don't remember falling
asleep, but know it was fairly shortly after seeing that creature, which was
oddly comforting, in a strange sense. It must have happened a bit after that,
and the next thing I knew, the alarm was ringing, and instinctively, I turned
the thing off.
Sleepy
as my eyes still were, I surveyed the horizon. It was not full light out yet,
but it was certainly not full dark, either. Everything was quiet, of course.
This was not a busy hour yet. That would come later. Still, it felt like I had
to get a move on. So, resisting the urge to lay back down and shut my eyes, I
turned the key to start the car, and began to drive, just wanting to find a
quiet place to empty my bladder in peace, choosing one of the really quiet,
tree-lined country roads that I had explored the night before (just a few hours
before, really).
That
done, I began to head towards my destination, although it seemed assured that
everything would be locked up and closed, and that it would take another trip
here later on to gain access.
But
when I got there, there was a car in the drive, and my eyes widened. Looking
around, I now saw quite a few cars parked there, and my excitement began to
grow. There was a great feeling that you feel when you accidentally stumble
upon something really great, and that was how I was feeling at the moment.
This
surely was too good to be true, and I would be met with some kind of
disappointment or other, right?
Still,
I headed towards my destination, taking a change of clothes, and quite a few
books, in my big orange travel bag. Walked away from the car and headed back
towards the road, crossing it, and to my destination.
There
was quite a congregation of people there already, despite the very early hour.
It was not even 6:30 in the morning, probably not even 6:15 or so. Yet, a whole
bunch of people, most of whom seemed to know one another, were there. There
stood on the sand, putting on their outfits, talking amongst themselves.
Always
feeling self conscious, and wanting to keep to myself, I took the far side,
taking heart to see these people nonetheless. There were some people already in
the water, swimming. Some were actually quite distant, and these exercises were
not for the uninitiated.
But
that was not why I was there. It was not to test my swimming skills, but to
swim these waters, and then to soak in my books, and one book in particular
that I had brought with me. This was a book that, though it shames to admit it,
I had tried to read a few times, but never gotten farther than a few pages or
so at most. There was a well-known essay in the back that had been highly
influential, and I had never even read that, either. That was a relative
blemish on my reading history, and a source of personal embarrassment (although
nobody else really knew). But starting today, I intended to change that.
Before
stripping off my shoes and shirt, I wondered if there was anything like this
scene in another lake or pond in the country. It was hard to imagine that there
was, since this was nearly a religious experience for some. Not sure that it
was for me, but this also was not just an ordinary swim, or anything like that.
I held this place with a certain measure of reverence and respect. There was a
reason, after all, that I cam here, specifically. There was a reason, too, that
these strange people gathered in such numbers shortly after dawn to catch a
swim, or perhaps a hike.
I
tested the water, expecting it to be prohibitively cold. But it was, and so I
swam, and simultaneously bathed and purified myself, in the waters at Walden in
the early morning hours of dawn, and watched as the approaching sunrise began
to hit the upper parts of the trees surrounding the pond.
The
water was refreshing, restorative. Suddenly, spending a night crouched inside
of a car in the back of a gas station was not such a big deal. Was, in fact,
okay. How long had it been since I felt so alive, awake? God, it was wonderful!
I
swam for a bit, then got out of the water, and sat, facing the pond. Pulled out
that book that I had never managed to successfully get through, or even to get
into beyond a superficial reading of the first couple of pages or so. It was an
old, beat up ex-library copy of Henry David Thoreau's Walden that I had found
at a thrift store for all of maybe fifty cents. It certainly was not more than
a dollar.
Reading
while feeling myself drying off, looking up every now and then to inhale and
take it all in, before exhaling and getting back to my reading, it all felt
very good. I was finding the reading far more enjoyable and enlightening than
ever before. Perhaps I had needed that maturity, because now, I could
appreciate it. Perhaps the surroundings helped as well. Whatever it was, it was
working.
After
about half an hour, when I felt myself really drying off, I went back in the
water. This time, I went out further than before, and really began to feel it
in my arms and legs.
How
long had it been since the last time I swam so much, and so seriously? Usually,
I am with my son, trying to teach him, and hardly go past shallow water that
reaches past my shoulders. So this was a new experience to me, of sorts. Or,
rather, it was an unfamiliar one that required reacclimatizing.
There came a point
when, braving a swim to what was approaching the midway point of the pond, I
looked toward the shore, and it was looking rather distant. So, I turned around
and headed back.
It was the most real swimming that I had done in ages, and my arms and legs
were actually feeling it. They were tired, and had that burn of exertion. I
reflected yet again that this was not a bad way at all to get up and get a
morning going.
I got back to shore, and got back to reading, too. It was still early, and I
was still feeling good.
There was one other thing that I really wanted to do, and that was going for a
hike. Now, I love hiking, and getting a hike in here, of all places, seemed
paramount. But time was starting to be a factor, because later in the day, I
needed to drive home to New Jersey .
Still, I wanted to make a point of hiking here, and fulfilling my desire to
have done everything I wanted to finally on a trip to Walden. This was as good
an opportunity as I ever had thus far, and I meant to take advantage of it this
time.
So, I found a quiet place (this was harder than you might think, because
although some people had filtered out of Walden Pond ,
others had joined them, and it seemed likely that the later the hour, the more
people would show up. But there was a quiet corner, and I changed into dry
clothes, ran up back to the car to drop off my bag and books, and then headed
back towards Walden Pond, after a brief visit to the replica of Thoreau's
self-made home (they seemed to refer to it as his "hut" on the trail,
which was not entirely accurate, I don't think, since it was a house in the
western style, and not a more basic hut, which would have been living even
closer to the wilderness, to nature, as it were).
So, there was a trail that wrapped around the pond, and I decided to take that.
At the entrance to it, there was information about the trail, claiming that it
ran a total of 1.7 miles. Pretty short, and should be a quick hike. About a
half a mile into it, I learned after reading more, was the site where Thoreau's
house once stood. I couldn't wait to finally see it, and wondered what it would
look like.
There was another pond just before you reached it, and this one was much more
like the image of a pond that I conjure up in my mind. It was tiny and kind of
tucked away, and filled with green algae and lily pads, and with ducks swimming
in the water. There it was, shining in the morning sun, sitting very prettily.
This was a very nice little corner of the world.
Right after that came a bit of a rise in the land to get to the site, and I
followed the signs. Finally, I saw it.
It is indeed small, and the tiny replica of the house nearby the parking lot
and Route 2A that divided the lot from the grounds of Walden Park, is indeed
probably quite accurate, in terms of size, as well as what was stored inside –
a bed, a desk for writing, a fireplace and some logs, and that was just about
it. But it's easy and efficient to heat during the winter time, surely, and
seemed rather quaint.
But this, this was the actual site where he stayed. I had assumed it was set
deeper in the woods, but it was quite close to the pond. Makes sense, since he
would have needed to water, on many levels. The site of the house itself has
clear borders around it, to mark where the walls once stood. There is a gap to
mark the entrance, and you can step inside, and look at the memorial in stone.
Nearby was a pile of stone, some painted and with design. Many were stacked
together, there were numerous such stacks. Next to this pile of stones, on the
far side of the house from the piling, there was a wooden placard, with a
fitting, and rather famous, quote from Thoreau.
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only
the essentials facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to
teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."
I remember the first time I had heard that quote and having it made an impact,
was seeing the movie "The Dead Poet's Society". Since Walden, I have
had the urge to once again watch this beautiful movie. That particular line of
Thoreau's had really given the boys pause for thought, and they had been very
impressed.
A lot of people gather here, obviously. But it is strange, because although
there is an air of reverence and solemnity, it is, nonetheless, not exactly a
tomb, or a memorial, or any such thing. In fact, it had been lost for some
time, but discovered midway through the twentieth century, when the remnants of
the fireplace gave clear indication of where the house.
Perhaps people were simply paying respect to the man, and his unique efforts in
the woods of Concord .
Mostly, I think there was a sense of awe at the power of his words and his
thought, which was quite unique and ahead of his time. Like the quote that was
on the wooden placard, there was much in poetic quality in Thoreau's words.
Yet, on some levels, he was just reiterating (or recycling, if you will)
something that others had said before him. Specifically, the natives of America
that had resisted the advance of our "civilization" had largely
stated many of the same things, albeit in different wording. They, too, had
been quite critical of the lifestyle that we have inherited. I am writing this,
and you are reading this, and that means that there is a connection between you
and me in terms of our culture. We belong to this "civilization" that
surrounds us. Thoreau can be credited with being the first member of our
culture to make an attempt at thinking differently than the conventional wisdom
of the time, and taking an entirely different approach.
Perhaps the most ironic thing about Thoreau was that he was in the shadow of
the much more famous (at the time) and established Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was
also a Concord
native. In fact, many felt that Thoreau was rather a cheap knock off of
Emerson, if you will, and so Thoreau was not really given much credit until
much, much later. In many respects, their relationship was that of master and
student, or perhaps rather that of master and underling. However way you want
to put it, Thoreau was clearly in the subordinate position. Emerson had fame,
was well known for his writings. He owned a house, and was more firmly rooted
in the community, while Thoreau seemed forever the outsider. People of his time
simply did not take to him, and perhaps not only did not understand him, but
did not try. This defined him for some time, but things change.
These days, it is Thoreau who is likely the most famous writer/philosopher to
have come from Concord .
I hiked on after
stopping at the ground where the house had once stood. The earth was soft under
my feet at points, leaving that soft impress in my wake, much as Thoreau
himself had written. At this point, I should admit that I did not take
Thoreau's advice, and leave things alone, but rather took a small but colorful rock
(more like a pebble) that I had found, as well as an acorn, a bit of water from
the pond in a recyclable bottle that I had spotted along the way. While I had
been gathering the water, my copy of Walden accidentally fell into the pond. I
quickly scooped it up, but not on time, as the pages got wet. It seemed the
book was ruined.
But it wasn't. The
pages did not get soaked, they just got a bit wet, and they were still legible.
The book could still be read. I was thankful for that. In a few days, much to
my surprise, the pages dried out entirely, and you would never know that they
had fallen into the pond, or had even been wet. Sometimes, if they get
completely soaked, that ruins the entire book.
I hiked around the
pond, getting vantage points of it from various angles. It was truly beautiful,
sparkling in the summer sun like jewels laid out on a blue canvass. It was so
bright, that I had to squint a bit and shield my eyes, another thing that
Thoreau himself had mentioned in his writings.
The track around
the pond is about 1.7 miles. I usually hike at least 2.5 miles to 3 miles, when
I hike, and I had a lot of energy (and still had some time before needing to
head back), and so I went back to the site where his actual cabin had been,
soaked it all in, and then finally, turned back, heading back to the beach by
the entrance near Route 2A, then crossing that, back to the parking lot, to my
car, which would take me back to the modern world, and my modern life.
My stay at Walden
had been nowhere near as long as Thoreau's, of course. He had stayed for two
years, two months, and two days, and I had stayed for a bit more than two hours
(actually, probably more like three and a half, and it was not my first time
there, but who's counting?). Still, I had the book, and I felt compelled to
finally finish it this time around. And that is exactly what I managed to do,
too (it will be the subject matter of a new blog in the very near future).
The thing is,
although I physically left Walden Woods and Walden Pond ,
Walden itself is more than that. Yes, it is the physical location of the woods
and the pond within. But it is also the book, and it is also the spirit of the
ideas, and the place, in your heart (if you allow it, of course). And so, with
my copy of Thoreau's Walden to read, I kept it close to me for a few weeks,
which made me feel close to Walden, even when far – even when I took a trip quite
a bit farther west. I took the book while hiking, and would stop at times in
whatever piece of wilderness I happened to be in (there is one place that I
love to hike which has an idyllic waterfall, and that wound up being a favorite
place that I would go to sit and read with that specific book a few times).
Now, I am done
with the book, but Walden still somehow feels close to me…
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