Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Sprague Lake Trail

In the pine barrens that cover the trail I look for a black shape on the uphill side, maybe impatiently turning over rocks and growling testily– but there are only more trunks rising through the reddish-brown duff.

But down in the valley again, in an arm of a sea of grass and lazy elbows of clear water, we see a glistening brown question mark of an animal turn on a boulder and slip noiselessly into the channel. "That's a mink," Celeste whispers. We advance softly and scour the lanes of grass between spiked logs, the commas and parens of water written in the green. There is no retrograde swaying of stalks, no hesitant ripple to show his track, only a pair of female mallards calmly touring the waterway.

We give up after a time and find Sprague Lake a hive of human activity: parents with bored children; eager children with bored or unimaginative parents (the worst); hikers who seem to be merely animated displays for their new gear; ordinary middle-class sorts who are just happy to be there; and a number of men who sound like Jim Nabors.

Back at the Cabin

Celeste picks the 78s this time and I type furiously while the laptop's battery power lasts. We eat tuna noodle casserole by the light of the hissing propane lanterns and Celeste leafs through the old guest log. The idea of a 50-year anniversary celebration has germinated and she's looking for some definitive date of construction. But the only specific reference dates the addition of the kitchen, in 1971. We will just have to ask JoAn.