Before I begin, I want to explain that this essay was written before the devastating floods that assaulted Vermont last month. In the wake of the floods’ damage, I thought it might seem callous to extol the delights we have found in that state without first acknowledging the destruction it has recently suffered, but I also feel it is important to recognize and celebrate what has survived.
As we have for the past several summers, Kathy and I are spending the better part of August in western Vermont in a small cottage on Lake Dunmore, a mid-sized lake about five miles long and nearly a thousand acres in extent.
Access to the cottage is off a dirt road loop that is itself off Route 53, a narrow two-lane paved highway. Most of he driveways off the dirt road that lead to the lakefront cottages average 200-300 feet in length. Thus, except for those cottage owners and tenants walking their dogs, the layout of the lake access does not foster social interaction.
But that doesn’t mean that there is no sense of community on the lake. In fact, the lake itself provides the setting for the true community of the place. For instance, it is an unspoken assumption among the lakefront owners that if you are out on your dock, you are open to unannounced visits from those on the lake who pull their kayaks, canoes, paddle boards, and outboard motor boats up to your dock for a social call..
But the apex of socializing on the lake takes place on the many pontoon boats that cruise its length. A pontoon is a flat-bottomed boat with a canopy and a motor whose speed usually tops out at 5 mph. Frequently, at “cocktail hour,” a half-dozen or so of these aquatic covered wagons will gather offshore. There the passengers can easily move between boats and share drinks and gossip. It is a sort of miniature freshwater version of what Herman Melville describes in Moby Dick as a “gam,” that is, a meeting on the water of two or more whaling ships, where members of the crew can exchange visits, news, and mail.
Lakes are not just large ponds; they have a character all of their own. Their piscatory populations differ from ponds: lake trout, pike, muskellunge, large-mouth bass, and especially sturgeon are generally not found in small ponds. The same is true of the lake’s avian populations. For instance, a waterbody must be of a certain size to attract breeding loons. Lake Dunmore, in fact, has a single nesting pair on one of its islands, whose privacy is generally respected by its human denizens.
In addition to their wildlife populations, there are more subtle but profound distinctions between a lake and a pond. Over the Augusts we have spent here, I have noticed that even on the most windless days, the lake never achieves that mirror-like calm that the Cape’s smaller ponds do. Still, especially in the evenings, when all the powered vessels have left the lake, I can often clearly hear conversations taking place across its surface, sometimes even from the opposite shore a half-mile away. In these quiet moments, the lake seems to act like an enormous tympanum, or ear drum, magnifying sounds around its circumference, laying a blessed quietude upon its waters.
In many ways, Lake Dunmore fits Robert Frost’s description of his adopted state of New Hampshire as having “One each of everything as in a showcase.” So Lake Dunmore has, in addition to its single pair of nesting loons, one restaurant; one state park; one venerable camp - Camp Keewaydin, that has operated on the lake since 1893; one music camp; one private campground; one fresh fruit and vegetable stand); one spectacular waterfall; and one certified mountain – Mount Moosalamo at 2,716 feet. And, oh yes, it also has, as far as I know, only one pair of Cape Codders – namely us - refugees from the Cape’s crushing summer crowds.
