Camp KaBrook – Here Back East

Music at Baskahegan Lake

It was a rainy, gloomy morning at camp. We had all arrived at different times the night before. My trip from New York to Maine by air was the most direct. Harv came by bus via Albany and Arnie and Bob drove 700 plus miles from western New York. Our first day at camp looked downright crappy. All our pent-up expectations of fishing and hiking during our short stay were weighed down under a cloud of dense fog.

Being the optimist that I am, I went ahead and organized, with Greg’s help, a cookout at Baskahegan Lake — and some fishing if the weather permitted. I could not let those Harry Hots, Don and Bob’s Hot Sauce and Genessee beer–all our teenage favorites transported direct from Rochester in the back of the car on that 700-mile ride–go to waste. With intermittent rain predicted throughout the day, we bundled up for wet conditions and headed off late morning. We followed in the Bronco as Greg led the way, trailering his boat loaded down with cooking supplies, fishing gear and of course our luncheon special.

The boat launch at Baskahegan is nonexistent – one wades into the water to embark. Wet in the feet already, I felt a mix of regret and foreboding that I had talked everyone into spending the day on the water. Greg had a campsite in mind for lunch and found his way across the broad reaches of the lake without GPS or a compass. As we approached the shore in a light fog, a couple of kayaks appeared—one a traditional yellow fiberglass and the other an unusual handmade one of varnished wood—and they just as quickly disappeared.

After we landed, some campers on shore, senior fellows like us, approached with friendly greetings. We chatted and learned they were from Massachusetts and, also like us, had known each other since high school. They were settled in at the campsite for an overnight, having rigged up tents spread between the trees. Underneath was cooking gear and hammocks for sleeping and, unexpectedly, a wooden harp, propped up against a small bench.

One of the campers picked up the harp and began to play for us. The gentle notes were delightful and so incongruous to the surroundings I suddenly felt transported back to a chamber music concert at Boscobel House on the Hudson. Yet here we were out in the middle of nowhere enjoying classical music with some new friends. Miraculously, the weather completely cleared up after lunch. We fished at a former dam, one of Greg’s secret fishing holes, and the guys got into a slew of fish. I caught a small mouth bass and they had their fill of sunfish, bass and carp. All in all, it was a grand day of boating, fishing, lunching and music on Lake Baskahegan.

Fishing the Morning

Support The Mountain Messenger by purchasing Lenny Ackerman’s collection of Here Back East columns, Fishing the Morning!

The Trail – Again

Last week at camp I ventured out onto the Wheaton Trust trail off Route 1. It is the same trail where I lost my way back in 2018, sweating through the wilderness to find myself only 500 feet from the highway, but some miles from my initial point of entry. This time I was accompanied by my kids and had the benefit of the new trail map brochure prepared by the Trust. The brochure is now available locally and at the trail sign-in post. The route is well marked and provided one pays attention to the map and the trail markings, getting lost is not an issue, though none of that is any use without the stamina and balance to handle the two or so miles of natural terrain to Sucker Lake.

The trail begins rather seductively some 1000 feet from the turn-off, with a cleared walkway to a car-width sized opening, everything plainly marked, and open to the skies. A few feet away a wooden bench is chained to a tree – undoubtedly a welcome sight to exhausted, returning hikers and perhaps a bit of a hint to what lies ahead. Eager to be on my way, I darted into the thick woods, my daughter Kara and her husband behind me. The trail quickly narrowed to the width of a bleacher row at Yankee Stadium – little over a foot wide. The ground was uneven with roots bared and tree stumps and sawn branches from a recent cutting. The light was much dimmer. There was no reason for sunglasses so I tucked them into my shirt pocket and slowly adjusted to the reduced light in the heavily canopied wood. I noticed how quiet it was. There were no morning birds or sounds of water lapping against the rocks– just stillness. We were alert at every turn for the next small directional sign nailed to a tree and the occasional painted limb indicating a trail marker. It was easy to miss these clues when forest debris or mud puddles obscure the obvious pathway. The trails are not level and obstacles, such as a fallen tree blocking the path, can be disorienting– like taking a wrong turn an unfamiliar city. Without clear detour signs one quickly loses direction. I always keep my head down to avoid a stumble, however with eyes on the ground it is easy to miss the trail markers. I learned my lesson the last time. These trails are marked early in the season and nature has a way of not adhering to anyone’s schedule. Avoiding the mud puddles from the recent rains then returning to the prescribed marked area on the map took a bit of walking back and forth to reorient ourselves.

The hike from the trailhead to the picnic area at Sucker Lake took us an hour and a half—a distance of only two miles. The over, the under, the balancing, the crossing of small streams, the muddy, low-lying areas and the large granite boulders all made for a bumpy trek. This time, with the help of my ever-alert children, the well-marked trail, and the new map, we did not get lost and together conquered a great hike. I sent my kids back to camp through a shortcut in the woods from the lake and I ventured on to pick up the truck from the trailhead. My cell gps calculated another hour walk so I decided it was enough. I turned around and took the same familiar shortcut back and hitched a ride with Katie to my truck. It was enough hiking for one day and I most certainly did not want to push my luck.

Father’s Day Menu

After a day of rain, temperature in the 40s, and heavy wind from the northeast, I awoke to calm waters, a bit of sun breaking through the dark clouds and weather in the high 50s. Enough reading by the fire. After lunch, Darci drove my 1950 motorboat up to the dock and off we went, Kara, Peter and I, to explore the shoreline of East Grand Lake. A lot of trouble with maneuvering in and out of gear—there were a few bangs into the rocks. Eventually, I figured out reverse was too difficult, so we paddled off into the open water, then used only forward gear around Greenwood Island, watchful for the large boulders now submerged by the recent rainfall. The afternoon sun created a mirror-like reflection of the island in the water off to the east. The effect was like a magnificent, panoramic painting.

The camps along the shoreline were mostly unoccupied, the occasional American flag whipping in the breeze to indicate someone was home. We passed a motorboat tied to a dock, awaiting the owner for the weekend, and a few chimneys with smoke. It was a quiet lake day. I was in the driver’s seat and the kids sat in the back. The motor made a loud hum, but I could hear the kids’ conversation and it was about me: Why is he so quiet at camp? He is not his usual talkative self? He seems to be in a quiet mood? Yes – I am all those things. Being away from the office, my cell phone, the computer screen, all the everyday noise, allows me the space to be more contemplative.

The next day was Father’s Day. I had planned a day of fishing at Wheaton’s with Andy and the weather forecast was encouraging: a slight chance of rain in the morning and clearing in the afternoon. Up early, before the sun. Eager to be on the water, I hustled the kids into the truck by 8:15 a.m. Andy was already launched. The kids had a new guide – Butch. Andy and I pushed off at Spudnick launch at 9:15 a.m. The water was calm. Andy gave me some rain pants. I am the optimist when it comes to fishing weather – “It will be fine!” All bundled up we sped off to one of Andy’s coves where the bass are drawn to the rocky shallows. Itching to cast, I stood up in the canoe and threw a fly to the hungry fish. I envisioned that they were awaiting my arrival. Right away a fish rose to the bait. By lunchtime I had hooked and set a dozen bass. Andy was relieved–no rain and plenty of catch. I am always amazed at how stressed he becomes if I don’t reel in my fair share before lunch. We landed for a picnic at Birch Trees, a public campsite – a bucket for a toilet makes it a campsite. Lunch was my four-pound salmon which was caught and frozen two weeks ago, grilled chicken and of course, lemon meringue pie. The perfect menu for an ideal Father’s Day.

Camp Opening

Mid-May is the customary camp opening target date. The usual tasks include emptying out the storage garage of porch furniture and the assortment of watercrafts: a 1950’s motorboat, a Grand canoe, oars and kayaks. The main cabin needs cleaning from the family of mice who live there rent free over the winter. The kerosene heater needs finetuning. The water pump needs priming. One special job this season was the completion of the bookshelves in my recently constructed office cabin overlooking the lake. Over the winter Greg –my regular handyman and fishing buddy –and his partner Jimmy built wall-to-wall bookshelves out of cedar, filling two full walls, floor to ceiling. I had shipped up around 1,000 books from the Florida and East Hampton houses, and my trusty assistant Ali spent a weekend sorting all the books by author and subject matter. Sometimes I refer to this new space as my studio, where I have my office and my watercolor painting supplies and easel. It will also have a fly-tying nook. Once it is all completed, I will have a perfect, separate, place of privacy—100 feet away from the main cabin—where I can work and play without disturbing anyone, or vice versa. I find it is usually the first place I go to in the morning to check my email and the last at night to steal a few moments with a good book.

I have a list of adventures planned for the summer season. There is a new trail guide that Wheaton’s Trust recently published. I intend to take a few outings with my kids and friends to prove I do not always get lost in the woods. I intend to learn to drive my little 30-horsepower Johnson motorboat on my own. It is like a Corvette when it takes off and planes at a 45-degree angle for a bit. I am building up my confidence to deal with that. I want to explore more off-road trails in my four-wheel drive. Last year I took the Bronco out a few times on the path up to Sucker Lake. More of that looks like fun. Sucker Lake – I really love it for its solitude. I am trying to encourage a family member or two to join me and Greg for a campout there one night but no takers. It is always the bathroom thing.

Being in Maine at my camp is always an exciting time for me. Much of my enthusiasm derives from trips as a youngster to Camp Seneca, a sleepaway camp on Seneca Lake in upstate New York. The outdoors has always attracted me despite the black flies. I suppose that is why I enjoy fishing so much. A bit of wilderness on the water, a good lunch and the peace and quiet way from life’s daily bubble.

Fishing on My Mind

It is nearly the end of April and I am deep into my angler magazines. I’ve also been calling on my fishing friends to find out about their upcoming plans and to reminisce about fishing exploits past. I called my buddy of many years, Dr. Jay, to talk about the early spring trips we took together with a gang of friends, now passed, to Pennsylvania – Big Spring Creek, Allegheny, Susquehanna and Penn’s Creek—for Walleye, Small and Large Mouth Bass, Pike, Muskee, Brown Trout and the occasional Rainbows. I’ve also connected, via zoom, with my friend Paul, in Wales, who has filled me in on the fishing conditions at the River Wye, his local spot. My latest issue of the British magazine, The Field, has the line on fishing throughout the UK, where it started April 1^st. The Brits have easy access to waterways throughout the countryside with endless fishing locations both private and public. I truly enjoy the fishing experience in the UK, as much for the catching as for the environment and the company. The outdoor spaces are exhilarating, walking through the ancient woods to a hidden fishing spot–it is as much fun as setting the fly. And of course, the fellowship, not only with my buddies but with the guides, who make all the travel worthwhile. Characters they are, who harken back to another era, as some have been fishing the same waters for fifty years.

I have my own fishing nest in Maine, and the daily reports still show ice in places on the lake. There are no reports on the beaver ponds since their locations are secret, known only to me and Greg. I will have to see if Greg has had a chance to check on them. I am traveling north in a couple of weeks for a hearing and am planning a side trip to Bangor and from there to camp for an overnight on East Grand Lake. Wheaton Lodge just opened and Sandy is encouraging me to come. “The small mouth bass are plentiful,” she tells me. Maybe a salmon on top of the water for my visit? I am hungry for my guide Andy’s grilled lake-side barbeque chicken and cowboy coffee. The Woodie Wheaton Land Trust recently closed on a large tract of land on the East Grand Lake and St.Croix headwaters. I am anxious to see it –and of course to go out on the lake with Andy. I look forward to the early morning sun on my face and the quiet of the grand canoe gliding through the water. The eagles soaring overhead. No other fishermen in sight. Andy knows I like to keep more or less to myself and rest the mouth and mind. He is respectful of my need for the tranquility. It is where I recharge my batteries for summer in the Hamptons and everything to come, and for as long as life has for me.

“Keep the Thorn to Keep the Rose”

My smart watch showed “snow showers in Danforth.” It is the time of year when Greg and Katie scramble to open the storage garage and sort out where all the “stuff” accumulated over the summer and summers before will be stacked away for the next year’s adventures. This year not only do we need a bed for the canoe and my old power boat, but I recently shipped up to camp my complete library of books accumulated since the mid-1970s. Greg is to build, over the winter, a new set of shelves to house my beloved, mostly-read books in my man cave-office-studio. I always feel comforted surrounded by books, as I am by the small fireplace in the studio. Next spring, I will organize the books, and figure out where my fly-tying apparatus goes, as well as my painting easel and other assorted tchotchkes. But now things are winding down. The closing up of camp in the fall coincides with my birthday in October and is always a time of reflection for me.

A recent article in the New York Times, “Fall Can Be a Season for Building Resilience” by Erick Vance, describes the melancholy one feels at the loss of sunlight and greenery at the end of summer. Yet those who “lean in” to the discomfort can gain from it, as it enables them to build up a tolerance to other fears and uncertainties in life. “Mindfulness” is another way to simply observe and accept life as it is rather than thinking about change as a source of distress. Useful advice, as this autumn is a bit scarier than most given what is happening in the world: important mid-term elections at a time when our democratic system is at risk, an escalating war in Ukraine and the threat of nuclear confrontation, plus the economic turmoil of inflation—and we cannot forget about the damage caused by Hurricane Ian on the west coast of Florida. It is getting harder for me to read and accept the front-page news. I know I must keep abreast of what is happening in the world, but it is becoming burdensome. I find the obituaries and wedding announcements more enjoyable than the current events being reported. Personally, I am fortunate to be healthy, to have a life filled with adventure, love and career success. Yet there is an unsettling feeling of uncontrollable events on the horizon. My form of mindfulness is to delve into a good book to take me to another place. Mysteries, biography, classics, as well as a new project—research on a historical novel I plan to write about my father’s escape from Ukraine during the First World War in 1918, and his journey across Europe to Argentina and eventually to upstate New York. Now there was someone with resilience.

Vance also talks about autumn as a time of year for “harvesting” memories, looking back and collecting the moments, good and bad, without judgment: “Keep the thorn to keep the rose.” At my age, I have plenty of thorns, but even more roses, for which I am grateful. The months ahead will be filled with various adventures and other ways to cope with the blues the changing seasons can bring, and of course my professional work is always a constant source of fresh challenges and excitement. And camp opening in May is only eight months away. In the meantime, stay warm, Katie and Greg.

First Cast

I headed to camp solo this past week. I wasn’t alone intentionally, but my invited guests declined for various reasons. Anyway, I wouldn’t really be alone once I got there. I envisioned days of backwater fishing with my camp caretaker, Greg, using my new 4 weight rod—a birthday present from an old colleague—and I would spend at least a day on the water with Andy, my long-time fishing guide at Wheaton Lodge.

My first morning back I awoke easily at 5:45am, the sun dousing me with warmth through the bedroom window. Quick to caffeinate and with metal coffee cup in hand, I sprinted down to the dock for a few casts off toward the rocks, past where the local ducks were sunning themselves. The bass were disturbed by my casts and fled, so I sat for a bit at the edge of the dock, scanning the lake and the few boats trolling for landlocked salmon and lake trout. East Grand Lake never ceases to amaze me. What was my hurry this morning? The water lapping at my feet at end of the dock and the quiet sound of nothingness was like a soothing balm.

After a time I was ready for fishing – perhaps the gods would provide for a bit of catching. I headed to Wheaton’s and Andy greeted me with a grin. Knowing I would not arrive at daybreak he had already trailered over to Spudnick Lake and dropped his East Grand canoe into the water. Wheaton’s had prepared us a cold lunch, which would give us more time fishing – no lakeside picnic over an open fire–as there was a thunderstorm forecast late afternoon. We set off into a breezy but beautiful, partly cloudy morning on the lake. Sitting with the wind at my back I closed my eyes and savored the moment, the sun on my unshaven face, with only the sound of the small motor pushing us along to break the silence. Andy steered us over to a small cove sheltered from the gusty winds. We dropped anchor and using one of Andy’s hand-tied yellow poppers I cast into the still water among the rocks and downed branches. Andy advised me to think like a bass: first scan the fly, then swim around it a couple of times then, if the fly moves, lunge for it. So using my bass mind, I retrieved the line a few times and…whack a hit! I set the fly and stripped in the line with my left hand. I brought a lovely small mouth bass to the canoe. Andy excitedly scooped the fish into the boat and grabbed his cell for a photo. He was as excited as I was to have caught a fish first cast out.

First cast first catch. In a larger sense, it is almost a metaphor– for those times in life when taking a new chance on something yields results. There have been times, when faced with a challenge, I went for something new—a first attempt at a solution—that led to a success. For instance, in my early years practicing law I decided to review the dissent in a case as the starting point for an argument to overturn precedent in a forthcoming case. This was an unconventional, fresh approach into unfamiliar waters that in the end resulted in a win. I used that strategy a number of times after that. My first big case in the Hamptons that received some press came about when I argued against the Town preventing a portion of beachfront from development without any legal basis to support the ruling. My challenge came from the dissent in another case which argued that “policy does not make law only a properly enacted legislative act of the municipality.” In that case I cast into an area where the courts wouldn’t usually venture in overturning an action of the Town. The day fishing with Andy was a delight as always. Things don’t change much in northern Maine. Andy’s Maine style reflects the nature of the water. He is even yet spirited. A great fellow to fish with.
Back at camp Greg and Darcy prepared for the next day at the backwaters off River Road. I had in past years tried fishing from the top of the water, but now with nymphs I would try my hand below the surface. My old Grumman canoe was propped against a fallen tree when we arrived at the edge of the pond. The paddles were in tattered shape having been ravaged by a bear per Greg. As usual Greg used a tree branch as a paddle to get us into the middle of the pond. I cast out, using my new rod and waited. A very slight, almost imperceptible movement of the bopper sitting on the water surface was the signal that a fish was on. Greg yelled at me to set the hook. Like I wasn’t moving as quickly as I could once my brain registered that yes Lenny a fish was on one of the nymphs below the surface. We did not have a net so Greg brought the fish to the canoe by hand over hand stripping in the line. A beauty–the colors of a Monet thrashing around in the bottom of the canoe while I took a few photos. Once again it was the first cast into fresh water. I wish every cast could be a first cast.

Fresh Air

May 2022

It was a breath of fresh air coming off the Delta connection in Bangor. Greg was waiting for me by the luggage carousel, where I joined him to watch for my fishing bag to emerge. Baggage claim was busy. I was surrounded by excited, happy faces, and there was an air of anticipation. I noticed a few fishermen like me in the group among the locals returning home. Bangor is the drop off for northern country commuters. It is the last stop before Canada and the wilderness of Aroostoock County.

As we drove north on I-95 the air was cool and full of pine scented excitement. The roadside trees had thickened with spring growth. Greg filled me in on camp life since we last spoke in person in October at my 82^nd surprise birthday party. That night was a once in a lifetime experience, especially seeing Katie and Greg dressed in evening clothes –out of their usual Maine camp wear. Now back on their home turf we caught up on post -covid life. Katie was suffering from a continuous loss of taste and dealing with a lost appetite. Greg still doesn’t have a cell phone. He got along without one for 60 plus years so why get one now he says. Per Greg, the fishing this spring is as exciting as ever. Lake salmon and brook trout are as large as can be with trolling streamers. The turnoff at Lincoln was a welcome sign that we were closing in on Danforth and my camp on the lake.

All very exciting and intriguing to me, as if from another universe. Returning north from Florida where only last week I fished the Loxahatchee River with Captain Charlie for snook in a flat boat to here on Maine’s third largest lake. Now on to Restigouche in Canada for a few days of salmon fishing. It is like a trip to the moon for me. From one universe to another to another. In the fishing brotherhood the people are all the same—honest and trustworthy. Brothers of nature we are.

Dipping My Toes in the Water

April 2022

At the end of my recent column, Comp Beginnings, I dipped my toes in the water off the dock at camp and drifted into a blissful state of mind, a quiet moment absent of the stress of everyday life as I know it. My old friend and dutiful reader, Jay, a retired surgeon living in New York City, commented after reading the column, “Why do you find happiness in the wilderness of Maine?’ What motivated me to spend clips of time over the summer months at Camp Kabrook, going back and forth between there and New York, to a place that was remote and often complicated and time consuming to get to? Why was it worth it? I must look back for the answer, back over my 82 plus years, to a starting point in time in the early 1950’s, when I begged my parents to sign me up for two weeks of sleepaway camp at Camp Seneca on Seneca Lake, a day’s bus ride from my hometown of Rochester. It was there in nature, in the beauty and the challenges I faced in the woods and the waters of upstate New York that I saw clearly what life could and would be-to come of age and to be “my own” person. I was no longer Marty’s kid brother but an individual– albeit still a youngster and a pimpled immature kid, but it was the start of something. Being on my own in the woods in a tent with new friends and young girls not far off was thrilling. The water activities at Seneca Lake drove me to push my physical effort to new limits. I felt a new excitement for adventure. The most exciting adventure was a trip to Seneca Falls a war canoe-a vessel big enough to hold 12 kids and supplies- several miles away and it was the ultimate physical challenge. To qualify for the trip, I had to swim out to a dock anchored in the middle of the lake. The level of endurance required was beyond anything I had felt before. In terms of physical activity, my only basis of comparison was summer softball at the Kodak Park Athletic League. Only a handful of us campers were able to qualify, and I was elated that I was among the chosen. This experience instilled in me a deep sense of confidence and accomplishment, both inextricably linked with the outdoors. Thus began my lifelong Jove of the water and wilderness.

Later in life, after college, everyone moved into apartments in the city. I never felt completely settled, a sense of wanderlust always churning to live beyond the concrete and glass. t needed grass and sunshine upon waking. My motivation to move to East Hampton with my young family, although driven by my wish to control my own destiny, was also in large part to experience the ocean and open spaces of East Hampton.

In later years, my passion for fly fishing was, now in hindsight, more about the journey and not the destination. It was less about catching fish and more about getting back to the wild. My camp was not a destination initially. I stumbled upon it, on the way to a fishing trip in Canada with friends Lori and Ted, who happened to have a family camp on East Grand Lake, where we stopped en route. It was that sea plane ride, landing at the dock of the camp next door to theirs, with a turned over For Sale sign, that hooked me on the idea of my own wilderness camp in Maine. I had read a lot about fishing camps and have a slew of design books on camp design and architecture. In fact, I once had an architect design a camp for a waterfront site on the West Branch of the Delaware that I wanted to buy but never did. Later, after visiting Blueberry Farm outside of Knoxville, Tennessee, I had an architect draw plans to replicate a fishing camp for my property in the Hamptons. Neither of these camps were ever built-my destiny it seems, was Maine. I suppose it has always been my desire to recapture some of the magic of Camp Seneca. I only needed the right place, and l found it on East Grand Lake.

Camp is more than a place to fish the morning lonely. I share the love of the water with my family- my girls and my grandchildren, my Patti, friends Lore and Ted and numerous others who drive the distance to walk down to the dock and dip their bare feet into the quiet waters of East Grand lake and dream like I do.

The Last Ice Cover

April 2022

I awoke at daybreak, the crisp air in the cabin still bearing the pine smell of the last burn off in the great room stone fireplace. I had slept under the heavy quilt Patti ordered for just this type of cold spring weather. A wool beanie kept my bald head from freezing during the night. The morning sun reflected off the ice covered lake through the cotton curtains that have been hanging in the bedroom window since my first visit to Camp Kabrook, before it even had a name. Back then they were old and in disrepair, but Katie revitalized them-washing, sewing and ironing them back to life, those old fashioned curtains from another era that reminded me of my late mother–she would have done the same with them as she never let anything go to waste. I arose slowly and felt the cold shock of the wood floor on my feet. I hurriedly slipped on my fleece lined moccasins and donned one of my old flannel shirts for a walk down to the dock. I decided to make a pot of fisherman’s coffee with lake water and eggshells-the eggshells an old camping trick to keep the grounds down.

I had arrived late the night before, my stay at camp only a stopover en route to the Restigouche River in Canada for salmon fishing. I expected the ice to have melted off by the time of this planned visit. Greg had given me a heads-up but on arriving so late on a moonless night I could not make out the
white sheet of ice crystal across East Grand Lake. The grassy lawn from the house down to the dock was a spring green, in contrast to the wintry lake scene. The fire pit was stacked high with newly cut limbs – Greg’s handiwork. He had also moved the picnic table off the dock, up near the enclosed porch for
storm protection. I crouched down at the edge of the dock, and with coffee pot in hand, tapped the ice, searching for an opening into the fresh lake water, but the ice was tight against the edge of the dock. I walked over to the wooded area where my nap tent is fitted during the season. There were small, deep pools adjacent to the large rocks that were not completely frozen over. I dipped the coffee pot into one of them and filled the pot to the brim. Back at the house I turned on the stove and ground the coffee beans, spooning them into the coffee pot. Next, the crushed shell from a fresh egg went in on top of the grounds. I filled the pot with the steaming hot water and hoping for the best, I waited. After a few minutes, I poured a bit of this black substance into one of my metal coffee cups and sipped the best and strongest and ground-less coffee ever. Whoa I did it. Now that I was fully caffeinated, I put on my hiking boots to go explore the last ice cover of the season. The ice on East Grand Lake is not like the glass-like surface of the ice rink in Central Park. It is like course and heavy sandpaper. The wind from the northeast creates curls and dips in the ice. Tracks from vehicles and other devices criss-cross. Further out there are occasional drilled holes for ice fishing. I only venture as far as the entrance to my cove. l am unsure of myself and aware of the risks of walking too far out. I am alone, but calm. The wind whispers a song of happiness. I am in the place where I fine solace. The air is pure. The little forest animals scurry looking for food and find the ice a major highway from point A to point B. I walk across the ice cove to my neighbors, Ted and Lori’s camp. No one is home. They are on long Island. I walk around their main cabin. A small watercraft is covered with canvas. The wood pile is still damp from melting snow. I envision Ted’s dad who lived at this camp for many years after his retirement from Grumman on Long Island, waking up every winter morning to enjoy and breathe in the landscape. The war in Ukraine is far away and out of mind. The rate of inflation, the Dow, and interest rates are some 80 miles away in Bangor where The NY Times is sold. I am at peace.