I took along my son, who had never had any fresh water up his nose and who had
seen lily pads only from train windows. On the journey over to the lake I began to
wonder what it would be like. I wondered how time would have marred this unique,
this holy spot--the coves and streams, the hills that the sun set behind, the camps and
the paths behind the camps. I was sure that the tarred road would have found it out
and I wondered in what other ways it would be desolated. It is strange how much you
can remember about places like that once you allow your mind to return into the
grooves which lead back. You remember one thing, and that suddenly reminds you of
another thing. I guess I remembered clearest of all the early mornings, when the lake
was cool and motionless, remembered how the bedroom smelled of the lumber it was
made of and of the wet woods whose scent entered through the screen. The partitions
in the camp were thin and did not extend clear to the top of the rooms, and as I was
always the first up I would dress softly so as not to wake the others, and sneak out
into the sweet outdoors and start out in the canoe, keeping close along the shore in the
long shadows of the pines. I remembered being very careful never to rub my paddle
against the gunwale for fear of disturbing the stillness of the cathedral.