Eden

Mica and Barry bought their land on the shore of Gut Pond, twenty miles south of Canada, in 1988 and proceeded to build a camp. They are still at it. First . . . the outhouse. Then the stout cabin with its steep roof to shed Vermont’s prodigious snows. Later, the deck, the dock, solar panels, running water, the indoor toilet, the refrigerator, the flower gardens. My favorite amenity is the hot tub, perched above Gut Pond and heated by a wood-fueled firebox palisaded off from tender skin by a picket of redwood.

Painted turtles sun on the shoreside logs and plunk off into the shallows when you try to sneak up in your silent canoe. Purple irises mysteriously bloom knee-deep at water’s edge. In the late afternoon the beavers commute across the sparkling waters to gnaw down trees across from their lodge, and to slap their tails at you if you happen to kayak by. At night a loon paddles the pond and haunts the dark air with its northwoods call.

In Vermont for some unknown quirk of tradition they celebrate July 4th on July 3rd. On our way back from a half-day ascent of Wheelock Mountain we blundered into the town party at Craftsbury — barricaded streets where the denizens ate at picnic tables and listened to the Star Line Rhythm Brothers while kids and dogs circulated among the beer drinkers and wine sippers. On two long tables at street center, free food! I folded a fiver into the contributions jar and helped myself to a hot dog, mac and cheese, slaw, a brownie. We perched on the steps of the general store to eat among the happy gracious locals.

Back at camp we stoked the firebox. At dusk’s last gloaming Barry and I took a quick skinny dip (very quick, guys . . . submarine snapping turtles down there) then eased our aching bods into the hot tub while the fireworks freaks over on South Pond flooded the night sky with bombs bursting in air, a fusillade that lasted until we toweled off and snuggled into our quilts. Instant sleep.

The mailing address here is 161 Gut Pond Road, Eden, VT.

Eden.