During our teen years, my brother, Mike, and I readily lied for each other. We shared our secrets, hopes, and dreams, drank beers in the woods, and camped out. One camping trip was to Corner Pond where Dad had a hunting camp. I decided it would be fun for us to hike in and spend a night or two. Mike was agreeable and a week later Mom dropped us off at the entrance to the trail on the Newcomb Road. We walked briskly through the woods even though Mike had broken his arm a few weeks earlier and it was in a cast. It was a ten-mile walk to the pond. From there, we launched a rowboat dad kept hidden among the fiddlestick ferns. I rowed us over the pond to the dark wood camp perched on a small knoll. The air smelled dank and the only sound was the rat a tat tat of the Pileated woodpecker drilling for food. We laughed, shared our thoughts, and arrived at the dock within ten minutes.
|My father, Howard, taking someone into Corner Pond (Picture courtesy of H. LeBlanc)|