June 15-17, 2016, Groton State Forest, Vermont, Ricker Pond
This is what I was imagining—a site on the little lake, birch trees swaying in the breeze. Arrived late yesterday, the 15th, without a reservation. The park manager made a big show of doubting whether he could squeeze us in but in fact he was a kidder and the place is nearly deserted. Still early in the season I guess, but what a fine place. We were a little concerned at first because the site is amidst the forest and Soulie kept darting off and getting misplaced but she seems to have settled down. Pheniobelle has been content to stay in the trailer throughout the trip and I am content that she is. When we took the Scamp and the cats on a shakedown cruise in February Pheenie took off the first opportunity “like a shot off a shovel” and it took me two hours and close to a half-mile of walking in the woods of the Northern Neck to track her down. But the cats are being well-behaved and I don’t have any complaints.
Hiked around a neighboring lake and walked the last few hundred feet up Owl Head Mountain to 2100 feet and a spectacular view.
The Civilian Conservation Corps had built a neat little castle-like shelter at the top of Owl Head in the 1930s. I can’t count the times I’ve had occasion to use and enjoy the labors of the CCC in my life—Camp Misty Mount above Thurmont, trails and overlooks in Monongahela and George Washington Forests, many places.
We wanted to walk around Kettle Pond but the trail was closed because a nesting goshawk has been attacking hikers, taking one guys hat off and up into a tree and sinking a talon into a ranger’s shoulder. I thought, “Let’s risk it—how often do you get a chance to get attacked by a goshawk?” but a wound from such a bird requires aggressive antibiotic treatment ‘cause who knows where those talons have been.
Brenda saw a moose, thank god. She’s been talking about nothing else since we got here then we came around a corner, driving back from a trailhead, and lo, there it was, like an upright piano on spindly legs.
There are loons on the lake by our camp at night. The normal cry of the loon is a plaintive note like a lonesome train whistle, but the other cry is a maniacal yodeling that lets you know why their name is associated with madness. Which came first, the moon, the loon, or the madman? Lunacy comes from luna, the moon, but loony comes from the loon. Another latin joke lurking in there somewhere.
We have pretty much been going on two meals a day. A good breakfast (buckwheat pancakes last two mornings) and a late dinner. A few nights ago we had some vegetables (asparagus, sweet peppers, green onions, arugula) mixed with thai curry paste, a couple of eggs and some flour, fried up like fritters. The same mix of veggies and flavoring sautéed the next night with rice noodles. We brought a toaster oven and have toast and peanut butter many mornings.
This campsite, Ricker Pond in Groton State Forest VT, was the first time we relied solely on battery power and I was disappointed to discover that our battery electric supply only lasted a little over 24 hours. I was hoping to get at least two day’s worth. The refrigerator is the heavy user so next time we are off-grid for a while I will get a bag of ice. But I also have a suspicion that something is sapping juice in a passive mode. I suspect the electric pump that brings water into the sink and to the toilet. Next time we’ll turn off the water pump when not in use and see if the batteries last longer. Hope so.
Yester evening, our last in Vermont, I drove to the little country store outside the state forest to get some necessaries. A local man was telling the others that he saw a catamount in his yard, the first one he’d seen in the thirty-some years he’d lived “on the mountain.” Catamount is a term I thought had disappeared in the 19th century but I have seen it used occasionally from upstate New York, where it was the mascot of a HS team in Hosmer Valley, to here. We would say mountain lion. Go, Catamounts, Go! ‘Course this guy said he immediately went inside to get his deer rifle; fortunately the panther had gone back into the woods. He knew killing the cat would be a crime and said, “I’d rather have my three year old boy than my hunting license.” I think he would have lost more than his hunting license. I would hope so.