*A note: This is the last letter accessible to free readers until late August. Meanwhile paying subscribers will continue to get posts at the regular pace.
Good morning,
After enduring over a month of stifling heat and humidity, swarming mosquitoes and black flies, sealed windows, and the constant hum of the air conditioner, we have finally transitioned into the delightful embrace of summer's sweet spot. The joy of this seasonal change is palpable, connecting us deeply to the natural world.
Weston's Farm Stand finally has its own sweet corn on the cob, while Grand View Farm has juicy, tender peaches and bursting tomatoes.
Here in Northern New England, our farm stands open late and takes six weeks to ramp up with their produce. This does not last long, but it is all the more reason to rejoice when the halcyon weeks are here.
Our nights have grown tender, and our windows once again open. You can almost smell the dew forming as owls hoot beneath the stars.
Last summer, it was uncomfortably hot into September, and the bugs never relented. But in past years, as August began to whisper into late July's ear, you could feel the coming of our favorite months. Mother Earth just recorded her three hottest days ever, but here in the White Mountains, we're celebrating what we feared was lost.
The days are still bright and hot, but not uncomfortably so. We won't need fleece for weeks, but our extra quilt has returned to the foot of our bed. Gosh, how we relish the nights!
Weekend days are crowded in the Mount Washington Valley. Wherever there is river access, the Massachusetts crowds gather with folding chairs, coolers, and boom boxes that drown out the simple song of mountain waters rolling lyrically over the smooth river stones.
We get out before most people, and now that we won't be feasted upon by swarming mosquitoes and black flies, we have returned to our night trekking. We begin at dusk, and I have my headlamp for when night settles like a blanket upon our empty trails.
It's funny how quiet the places teeming with noise and clutter right up until suppertime feel as the tender hours appear.
Two nights ago, we had a close encounter with a fat-rumped black bear. He crossed from the pond into the verdant woodland with much thrashing and twig breaking. I could have hugged him.
Then, last night, an even more welcome return greeted us at the pond.
In December, we set out for our western odyssey nine days early when a frenzied flood ripped through our area. It lasted less than a day, but boulders were tossed with ease down Jackson Falls, roads flooded and were closed, and the trails we walked had chest-deep water. Trees crashed down, and the paths were rutted; the rush of water ripped jagged mouths open on our favorite earthen routes.
The Saco River reclaimed many of the walking routes close to the water. Some disappeared completely. When we returned home this spring, our sacred haunts were unrecognizable, and walking them was impossible.
While circling Thorne Pond one day, we crossed where a wide opening leads to the Saco. The river's course was changed, and sand dunes created smaller sections of the formerly wide river. Giant trees that had been uprooted lay in countless numbers like dead soldiers on a battlefield.
One of our numerous pandemic transfers from the Boston area was standing on a new lip to the river, where the flood had stolen the latest twenty feet of the bank. She looked out at the rubble of trees and asked me, "When are they going to clean this up?"
"Who are they?" I asked.
"The crews that take care of the river," she said, "the ones who keep it beautiful."
"There are no crews. There's only nature. Most trees will eventually be washed further downstream with the next big storms. Some will stay where they are forever."
My sadness came when many of our favorite oaks, birches, and maples were felled by the flood. Nature has her way, but our changing climate leads to more flooding. December's was our second of 2023. We used to have one of these every ten years, but now they can happen in each of the four seasons.
Mourning for one massive maple which was toppled into an inlet where the beavers had lived, I thought of something Tolkien had written in a letter, "In all my works, I take the part of trees as against all their enemies."
The inlet, where we'd sat many an evening tossing apples to a family of three beavers, was ruined. When the flood destroyed the dams, the water drained back into the river. I worried and wondered about our beaver family.
Over the past three months, I've watched the inlet fill slowly again. Each day, Samwise, Emily, and I stop on our route to look for the beavers. If the inlet is filling again, they must have returned.
Last night, we did not see them, but we heard the warning splash of their great tails. They had left their reclaimed inlet and waddled the short way to the pond. As we were passing, three resounding splats told us to back off.
I could not have been happier. Cool nights, peaches dripping with honeyed sweetness, and perfect gold-toothed corn reveal the best of summer, but nothing brought me joy as much as the return of the beavers.
We sat by where the river used to run wide and free for twenty minutes. Samwise pondered, moving nothing but his head. Even Emily sat as dusk ceded into the night. We walked for another 30 minutes, and when we got to the HMS Beagle, I did not want to go home.
With windows and the sunroof thrown open and the Red Sox game on the radio, we drove through the night for 30 miles. All three of us relished the familiar scent of summer, leaning slightly toward autumn. We went along Bear Notch Road, where we saw our first moose of the year. Then, we traveled a quiet Kancamagus to Dugway, West Side, and eventually back to Route 302 toward home.
We slept soundly and awakened happily. I opened my eyes to see Samwise studying the backyard as chipmunks and birds chattered. My first thought was, "The beavers are back."
The beavers are back, and so is the best of summer—at least for this year.
“Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don't they should, for
their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers.”
― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine
Notes
Founding Members are currently deciding which framed photo they want. In the next two days, I’ll email them for their choice and mailing address. Photos will go out from mid-November through mid-December. Anyone signing up or upgrading to a Founding Membership between now and April will receive a framed photo and be put on our mailing list (postcards and greeting cards).
Meanwhile, we are giving away this one in a drawing to all new subscribers this weekend.
Also, four stops have been added to Coddiwomple 2025: Jack Kerouac’s grave (Lowell, Massachusetts), Theodore Roosevelt’s Sagamore Hill home and grave (Oyster Bay, Long Island), Rowan Oak, William Faulkner’s home and grave (Oxford, Mississippi), and Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge (Indiahoma, Oklahoma). Stay tuned for more updates!
Random Photo
