The Cabin, The Woods and The Lake

Leaving civilization behind,

if only for a week,

I arrive in central Maine's expansive countryside,

far from the northeast's bustling cities and crowded populations,

besieged by Trump 2020 signs, yet entranced

by nature's overwhelming sublimity.

My home away from home

will be a 100-year-old rustic cabin,

originally built by railroad men,

straddling the shores of Spruce Mountain Lake,

sans modern amenities such as running water and electricity.

Deciduous forests surround me,

creating an exotic perimeter of lush green flora.

Loons take to flight, then dip for a wade in the lake's cool waters,

their hymns echoing around me,

sung in high pitched tones.

The winds whisper softly in my ears,

nature's deafening silence satiates my soul.

Outside the cabin, dead fall makes ideal fire wood,

laying in a heap awaiting the campfire's roaring flames.

Home to millions of micro-organisms and bugs,

I feel a profound sense of guilt

for disturbing these stumps,

their humble abodes,

that lay strewn across the forest floor.

Considered by humans as dead and worthless,

these stumps, the remains of felled trees,

continue to live on thanks to their intricate root system,

pumping nutrients and water

to neighboring trees and plants.

Providing life long after the tree's demise.

I stand in awe, marveling, at the stands of

pine and birch,

all erect, stoic, differing in size and age,

forming a lush protective overstory,

while a nascent understory remains

bathed in moisture and shade.

Seedlings,

no taller than a foot or two,

bide their time like a patient child,

for one day,

when an opening appears in the branches above

they will gravitate towards

the sun's bright and warming rays.

Today, the lake beckons.

I cautiously push the heavy 12-foot

wooden canoe into its waters,

placing my feet strategically upon

the slick rocks

in hopes of avoiding another fall.

I glide effortlessly past lake grasses

intermittently protruding above the water

as delicate lily pads rest nearby.

I carefully navigate around sharp boulders, 

no doubt left here millions of year ago

by the rushing waters of receding glaciers.

They announce their presence,

appearing like a giant's nose or

a large shark's fin rising from the depths.

Interspersed betwixt bird songs are

faint, distant human voices

emanating from the forest's perimeter

and reminding me that I am not

alone.

After paddling around two, tree-lined islands

I begin my journey back to the cabin and

head-first into the wind.

While light and refreshing

amidst summer's heat,

mild breezes create stiff resistance

for my canoe and paddle.

A minute's rest soon blows you off course.

I glance longingly towards the horizon,

painted meticulously

with rounded mountain peaks and sloping valleys.

The green canopies of tens of thousands

of trees blanket the terrain.

Much of this landscape seems unsullied by human hands and

I suspect this is what Maine looked like when

Henry David Thoreau and his older brother John

visited nearly 200 years ago. 

I dream of what it would be like to live here

among the trees.

As I paddle further I declare silently

that I could do this every day.

Ahead, I catch a glimpse of dark clouds

just beyond the mountain tops

slowly advancing before overtaking

the late-day sun.

It is time to come ashore,

for I do not wish to be caught

out in a mighty downpour.