A beautiful September day, where everything just stands up and shines. It seemed a sin to stay indoors on a day like this, so I strapped my canoe to the top of my car and headed out to Higgins Pond off Schoolhouse Road. I usually don’t go there in the summer because there are only three parking spaces, and they’re taken early by swimmers and fishermen. But this time of year, especially during the week, users are few. Today there was only one other car there – an Audi. A man in a blue bathing suit stood next to it, a towel around his shoulders, talking on a cellphone in that direct, authoritative manner of a business executive: “No, I like him,” he said. “No reason for a shoot-out. I’d like to keep the team together.” He took no notice of me as I unloaded the canoe and slid it into the water.
For the next hour I paddled the interconnected shorelines of Higgins, Williams, and Great Ponds. The water was calm, with only a light, clear northeast breeze. Except for two men fishing in the middle of Great Pond, there was no one else out on the water, or along the shore for that matter.
I was struck by the brilliancy of color on the ponds in this season: the tri-color spears of pond reed; yellow- red- and green-speckled lily pads; dark maroon arrowhead, and one brilliant red maple on the shoreline, leaning over the water. Its entire head of leaves had turned an intense scarlet, like a silent, roaring crown of fire about to fall into the pond and be extinguished.
It was a serene and largely uneventful voyage – no rare sightings, no epiphanies. I just took pleasure in the rich face of the pond on a clear autumn day with the air cool and the sun still warm. I passed the shoreline houses and cottages, most of them hidden by foliage. Most of the pond accesses were small, almost undetectable, just narrow footpaths coming down from the houses. There were a few small docks and platforms, with the occasional tent or small boathouse. I passed one man raking arrowhead in front of his small landing, but other than that the accesses were empty. Not abandoned or deserted, though. A number of small sailboats – Hobie cats and sunfish – were still moored offshore. Empty beach chairs and other furniture still lined the shore. It was as if their owners had all left for some important event and would soon return. It seemed, in fact, a shoreline of empty seats: folding beach chairs, benches on docks, small deck platforms with built-in seats, padded deck lounges, and, in one place, a marble bench engraved with the legend: ZENA SMITH BLAU/ 1922-2004/ SHE LOVED THIS PLACE. I’m sure you did, dear, I’m sure you did.
When I got back to the landing and pulled the canoe ashore, the businessman was still there where I had left him, standing in his bathing suit, making authoritative statements into his cell phone.
