Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,21
the road into the woods. The air is cool and fresh and smells like leaves and dirt and the pine needles crunching under my feet. I continue down the road and sense the presence of the pond even before I see it—an open space off to the right, a break in the thickness of the woods. Then, there it is, a smooth gray surface like chrome reflecting the sky.
This is exactly what I imagined last night—was it only last night?—reading behind the Dumpster, with Jack and Nessa sleeping nearby. I can’t believe I’m here.
A steep walkway leads down to the water and a small sandy beach. I stand there for a while, listening to the quiet and breathing in the peacefulness of this place. A man and woman sit on a stone wall by the water, looking out at the spreading purple of the sky. A gray-haired man in hiking boots comes out of the woods and gives me a nod. Night is coming.
TO SITE OF THOREAU’S HUT
A sign with an arrow pointing to the right of the beach leads to a path along the shore of Walden Pond. The sun sinks and the temperature drops as I walk about halfway around the pond, looking for signs of the cabin.
I’m about to say screw it and just sit down for a while, when I see another sign with the words House Site pointing up a small hill away from shore. Finally. I climb the hill, looking for the cabin. Instead I see a big clearing with more signs and a big pile of rocks and pebbles. But where’s the cabin?
A few steps farther, and there’s a group of carved stone pylons, like skinny headstones. About twelve of these waist-high stone pillars are arranged in a perfect square, and all but the two in front are attached to each other with chains. It’s like some crazy outdoor exhibit at a museum. I lean over and squint in the dying light to read the words engraved on a metal sign: SITE OF THOREAU’S CABIN. DISCOVERED NOVEMBER 11, 1945.
Blinking hard, I read it again. Site of Thoreau’s cabin. And finally, I get it. Yes, the cabin was here in this spot, a long time ago. But not anymore. Of course not anymore. I should have realized this. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I step inside the stones outlining where the cabin used to be. It’s smaller than I expected. At the back there’s a flat stone with some poem about Thoreau’s hearth. That spot is where his fireplace was.
The sun disappears behind the horizon and I start to shiver. I wish that cabin was still here, with a big fire in the fireplace. Maybe hot stew or something cooking in a pot. But there’s nothing for me to do but gather a pile of dead leaves to make a pathetic pillow on the stone where Thoreau’s hearth used to be. Lying down, I try to imagine there is still warmth in that old stone after all these years. I try to pretend there’s a cabin built up around me, just like the one in my dream. I try to sleep.
Well.
No matter how amazing he was, or how much he loved the whole nature thing, even Henry David Thoreau would have hated being me at Walden Pond on a night like this.
It’s cold and dark, there are weird rustling noises in the woods, and I’m so lonely I feel like the last person left on earth. I’m shivering so hard my teeth rattle in my head and I would give just about anything, including my left nut, for a blanket. This sucks. At least the train station in New York was warm. I hate Thoreau for luring me here and making me think that by coming here, I might actually figure out who I am. Dozing off and waking up, suffering through surreal dreams of being chased and eaten by coyotes and rabid foxes, somehow I survive the night.
Just before dawn, the woods grow dead quiet and there’s something electric in the air. Somebody—or something—is here, watching me. A presence. My eyes fly open in a panic, and I see him. Henry David Thoreau. He looks exactly like the picture on the back cover of Walden, his hair dark and curly, one hand gripping the lapel of an old-fashioned gray overcoat. Standing at the side of the stone pillars, he looks down and watches me shiver.
“What are you doing, boy?”
Did he really just speak or did I