Laughs on Lake Willoughby

JOURNAL ENTRY: AUGUST 29, 2023, JOHNSON, VERMONT

“I am sitting here looking at a sublimely beautiful view of the vert monts, or Green Mountains. Mount Mansfield is off to the southwest, hiding just beyond the treeline to my right. Rain is moving in, the ridges are becoming obscured in the mist. The mountains unfurl before me and spread across the horizon. They don’t have that unattainable look that the Rockies do, but I know the forests on their flanks can get as dark and dank and dense as any forest anywhere. The rain is closing in, maybe I should go tell Wendy that it’s time to batten down the hatches.”

***

THE MAPLEWOODS CAMPGROUND IN Johnson, Vermont was the eighteenth location we camped in. For all intents and purposes we were still, a little over two months in, learning the ins and outs of living full time in an RV. That day, August 29th, dawned wet and gloomy. Vermont had just experienced historic flooding and rainfall. The locals were sick to death of rain. But the landscape was thriving. The view from behind our camper was a picture-postcard panorama of Vermont. The mountains were proving the appropriateness of their moniker. It was lush beyond measure. 

With all the rain it looked like it was in repose; biding its time before opening up again to the world. I didn’t want the sun to come back. It seemed special this way. Or, then again, that could just have been my New England roots calling out to me—now a Colorado transplant who sometimes gets sick of the endless blue-sky days Colorado is so famous for. How about some gray overcast days, huh? Would that be too much to ask?

In the early afternoon we prepared for a day hike. My friend, who was our reason for being in this neck of the woods in the first place, had recommended Lake Willoughby in Westmore. 

Packing for a day trip was something we had become adept. While I still may not have entirely mastered (or let’s say not entirely lost my fear of) pulling the trailer or figured out why the vegetables were still freezing in our refrigerator or how to fix my black tank (septic) sensor which had stopped functioning two weeks in, I did know how to get us ready for a hike. The knowledge that my children (well, most of them) would not want to go on a hike was the most pertinent information of all. Knowing this I could prepare for the immediate onslaught of revulsion at the idea. Like many parents before me, and most likely after, I have learned that my children are happiest during a hike. At the outset? Not so good.

 We grabbed our day packs from the pass-through storage compartment at the front of the camper and retrieved our water bottles. These were an assortment of Nalgenes, Kleen Kanteens and Hydro Flasks. They were covered with National Park stickers of the parks we had visited so far on our journey: Badlands, Devils Tower, and Acadia, to name a few. We didn’t just open the kitchen tap and fill them however. We never drank the water from the taps (which were supplied by the freshwater tank that we filled at campgrounds, gas stations, or friends’ houses). Instead, we bought jugs at grocery stores and refilled them at reverse osmosis stations or other places when we could. Water was a resource constantly on our minds.

Then, into the packs went whatever snacks we could scrounge from the cabinet above the dinette. This cabinet was just out of reach of my short family. I could barely reach myself and even then not enough for a sufficient search. So someone would have to kick off their shoes and climb onto the dinette seat and dig around.

“What’d you find?”

“Um, some Ramen noodles, some packets of Lipton Noodle soup, a jar of honey that’s stuck to the bottom, some moldy bread and a couple hamburger buns.” Hmm, honey and hamburger buns? To be fair, Wendy did a remarkable job of keeping us all fed on the road. This was a tricky task given we were most often in different towns to shop for groceries. This meant a different store with a different layout with different products. Still, sometimes pickings in the pantry were slim.

Finally, we needed our walking shoes from under the dinette. A small cabinet accessed the space under one of the couches. This was the shoe bin. It held something like fifteen pairs of shoes, or more. It smelled bad and was full of sand and dirt. My mother sent us a cute little potpourri pouch (maybe as a hint after visiting us once?) that we threw in there. The door opened awkwardly at floor level into the aisle, meaning all motion stopped while someone dug for shoes. The first shoe of any pair was always easy to find. It gave you hope that maybe this was the time you’d find the second one quickly. But in the end you still had to pull them all out to find it.

Finally, we locked the camper and piled into the Tahoe. Over time the Tahoe had become like a well-worn baseball mitt. Dirty and grungy, sweat-stained and gritty, yet also perfectly suited to our needs. But good luck if you needed to find something in the center console, that thing was like a black hole.

We drove up to Lake Willoughby and parked near the south shore. It was quiet in town. We ducked into the White Caps Campground store for coffee, coke, chips and muffins; it was pretty much all they had. Then we crossed the road and walked onto the small beach looking out across the lake. It stretched away to the north for five miles and was only three-quarters of a mile wide at its widest. It looked like a finger lake, or even a fjord. Mount Pisgah rose dramatically to the east. The forested summit loomed above sheer, quartz-streaked rock walls that plummeted two hundred feet until they disappeared into more heavy forest. To the southwest rose the East Overlook. 

My GPS app showed a trail that ran along the western shoreline to a spot below the East Overlook. It passed Southwest Cove Beach. That sounded nice.

“Guys, come on, this way,” I said.

We spread out following a plethora of social trails through tangled heaps of exposed tree roots until the trails coalesced into one.

Then quite suddenly there were two naked men standing in the open. Their white buttocks so shocking we couldn’t look away. One was standing near a chair on the beach, the other standing just off the trail gazing at the water. We had to walk uncomfortably close to the man standing off the trail. He looked over his shoulder and gave us a sheepish grin. I’m just glad he did not turn around and wave while saying, “Howdy, folks!” Awkwardly, so awkwardly, we filed by. I can only imagine my girls’ thoughts at that moment.

The man on the beach was large…and hairy. He was as white as a beached narwhal. He was old, too. At least the guy on the trail was kind enough to be somewhat fit and healthy. But not this guy. Finally, blessedly, he sat down in his chair as we continued on the trail that skirted the edge of the beach.

I couldn’t decide if I should say something to the girls to distract them. Look at the beautiful forest over here, girls. This way! No, not that way! But instead I smiled and laughed and gave them a who-knew shrug. They had the most amused (horrified?) expressions on their faces.

Most unsettling was the third guy who seemed to be…watching. He was shirtless, but otherwise clothed. Yet, it appeared he was this nude beach’s sole spectator. I wanted to say, “Go on, if you can’t beat ’em…join ‘em.” But that seemed wrong on many levels. The three men watched us go as we mercifully entered the forest again.

Why here? I remember thinking. What a strange place to get naked. Right next to this cute little town with its campground and camp store. There was the trail, too, that went right past it. Plus, it was cloudy and cool. 

But, hey, whatever floats your butt…boat, I mean.

It was an amusing next couple of miles on the trail. We couldn’t help and try to process what we had seen. Then, in a moment of shocking realization, Wendy asked, “Wait, do we have to go back that way?” And I, knowing how much Wendy hates an out-and-back of any kind, let alone one with old, hairy, nude men on it, groaned, “Yes.”