Edie Thompson
Is there a special place in your memory, one that has perpetual sunny, cloudless blue skies? In my head is such a place in the Adirondacks where my family used to camp. Stony Creek Ponds were part of the historic Raquette River to Saranac Lake canoe route. The Indian Carry was an ancient path of 1 mile that allowed access from the first pond to Upper Saranac Lake. There was only one "camp" on First Pond; this private property blocked a land approach to our camping spot.
There was a well sunk in the lake-shore sands years before; the pump was stored in a farmer's barn over winter, as was our Adirondack guide boat. This state land was accessed by boat and afforded a unique opportunity to enjoy an ideal vacation, shared with two other families. Our cook tent was surplus from World War I; several "umbrella" tents gave us shelter. Canvas cots had straw mattresses. Dad built a table and benches which somehow survived the winters. Mom's classic potato soup, cooked over a wood fire, was a gourmet delight.
Our yearly return in summer afforded a vacation where 9 or 10 kids from 3 families relished fishing, boating, swimming, and a nightly bonfire with shared tall tales and singing, and sometimes s'mores. My dad saved out-sized clean cans in which he would place a large stone. He would bury these in the bonfire, to be retrieved at bed time, destined to be placed far down in our covers. We sleepy-eyed kids stumbled back to our campsite to crawl into our cots, knowing our cold tootsies would find that towel-wrapped bundle of warmth.
Sixty-five years later I returned with friends on a summer afternoon. The driver kindly stopped the car on the narrow 2-lane road that skirted First Pond. I crossed the road and stood between the trees looking across the pond to that beloved place. After all those years, it had remained the same, verifying my memory. Tears poured down my cheeks as I returned to the car. Indeed, my eyes are full of tears now as I write this memory.
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