A Week at Ponkapoag

We used to walk the four-and-a-half mile trail around Ponkapoag Pond in the Blue Hills years ago when the kids were very young.  One stretch of the trail took us by cozy-looking cabins--some right by the water--but it never occurred to me to investigate further.  We'd since gotten away from walking as a family.

I rediscovered the AMC Ponkapoag Camp when Stephen and I worked there at pulling invasive garlic mustard as part of his service as a Boy Scout.  I was newly impressed by the beauty and the diversity of plant life (spice bush Lindera benzoin everywhere), even having a first memorable encounter with stinging nettle, and the desire gradually grew in me to stay there.  The cost was very reasonable, a bit of money available, and so we put in for a week in late August.

I, two boys, the dogs and a carload of stuff made the 25-minute inaugural trip on Sunday afternoon, while Bea stayed home to make our traditional "moveable feast" to eat with my parents.  Our little, loving Jekyll dogs become ravening, vicious Hydes when they encounter other dogs, so we were doubtful they would be able to spend the week, but it turned out that others dogs were also sometimes imperfect, so ours didn't stand out that much and were able to stay.   After a nice evening with my parents, we loaded up the car again, three kayaks on the roof, and returned to stay at nearly midnight.

The cabin was fairly old, and redolent of wood smoke from the stove in the corner.  It was divided into a large room with two sets of bunk-beds and a sort of trundle double-bed, with a drop-leaf table and dresser.  It was clearly ready for long-term occupation in all seasons.  the entry led into a smaller room, with such large, screened windows that it was almost a screen porch.  This had an old formica-topped kitchen table, dry sink, shelves, and another smaller dresser.  Bea loved it, and spent time arraying our belongings properly.  Outside was a dusty yard with a picnic table where we set up the propane stove.

Staying there would be roughing it, except for our boating experience: there is no running water, and everything carried in must be carried out.  The only hard things were sleeping in unaccustomed beds (often making for late mornings), and using the communal pit toilets that--at season's end--could gag a vulture.

The camp turns out to be a community in itself, with members who return year after year, sometimes continuing into a new generation.  One man I fell into conversation with remarked that he liked the cabins near the common area because all the adults would keep an eye on the young children, but the more secluded at the periphery for peace and quiet when they were older.  (Ours, by good luck, turned out to be one of the more secluded.)

I spent the days orienting myself to the flora and landscape nearby, hiking, kayaking, and reading Thoreau' journal and thinking about his ideas.  In the last few days I make a little display of the pond's water plants with their names for any who were interested, and a printed flora of the camp area for the Nature Center.  (I didn't ask before doing these--they may have been unwanted.)  The boys came hiking a couple of times, and spent some time wandering about in kayaks under my shore-side supervision (shady chair dockside, book in hand), swam a bit, and lay in their beds reading a lot.  Bea, who had already taken vacation time to visit with family in New Orleans, left most mornings, but always returned with supplies and made very nice suppers.  She was delighted to be among the trees, and pleased also to plan menus and make good meals.  We had visitors twice: a friend of Stephen's stayed one night, and Beatrice's best friend came for a few hours and went hiking and kayaking with her.

When we left on Saturday, I spent a good hour wandering among the two-dozen-odd cabins scattered over the hill and waterfront, noting (among those large enough for our family) which were more secluded, which were close to the water (both important to me), and which had ready access to the outhouses (crucial to Bea).  A plan for a week at Ponkapoag next summer was an unspoken understanding between us. 

Our cabin was named Marion.

All moved in.

I had only heard of dry sinks before this.

Finishing touch.

Beatrice is pleased.

Golda and Linkin feel at home wherever their bowls are.

Lunch time.

Our neighborhood isn't too crowded.

Although mostly on a level, our round-the-pond hike took us near some pretty big rocks.  I'm guessing bedrock rather than a glacial erratic, judging from its size.  I didn't think to see if it aligned with other rock in the area.  (I did confirm probable glacial striations right in the camp, though!)

One side of the pond is graced by an atlantic white cedar bog.  A boardwalk is maintained through this bog that is about a quarter-mile long.

Vegetation changes as you go, passing through bands dominated by different plants.  The trees here are atlantic white cedar, the low shrubs mostly leatherleaf, all growing in a foundation of sphagnum. 

the white pom poms mark the plant bog cotton.

Golda.  The day was warm and humid, the trail long for short legs, the boardwalk strange, and both dogs eventually began to wish themselves elsewhere.  In quest of a drink, Linkin fell in.

The cranberries weren't ripe, but that didn' prevent a taste or two.

One highlight was the insectivorous Pitcher Plant (Saracenia purpurea) Stephen spotted.  Two open leaves (green with red veins) from the same plant have emerged from the sphagnum.  Sundews (Drosera rotundifolia) were visible in several places.

the boardwalk ends at the edge of open water.  The Camp is perhaps half-a-mile across the pond in the dark woods on the left.

We noted these strange growths over and over on our hike--always on black oaks.

A new dam has been constructed since last we walked around the pond--long ago, considering the date on the bridge.

View from the causeway beyond the dam.  Linkin's tail is back up: he knows we're nearing home.

Stephen explores in Speedbump.  Great Blue Hill stainds in the distance above.

One of at least two families of canada geese have been rearing their young on the pond.

Trevor is in the blue skin-on-frame boat, Musketaquid.

 Boater's Botany: white pond lily (Nymphaea odorata) has floating leaves almost round, and second in size around here only to yellow pond lily (Nuphar advena).  Above center is the unrelated insectivorous Bladderwort (Utricularia inflata).  Each little yellow flower is supported by an asterisk of inflated white leaves.

Boater's Botany: Water Shield (Brassenia shreberi) is distinguished by its oval double-ended leaves with the leaf stem attached in the middle of the blade.

Boater's Botany: there are two species of plants in the pond that look like giant underwater pipe cleaners.  This one is Fanwort (Cabomba caroliniana), marked by leaves that divide by twos, spindle-shaped upper leaves, and white flowers with yellow centers.  The other, Water Milfoil (Myriophyllum sp.) has leaves with a clear midvein, and tiny inconspicuous flowers in spikes. 

This little island is sedimentary rock standing almost on end--like that in the camp near the outhouses.  Fairly deep, broad parallel grooves cross the surface of the latter at a significant angle to the bedding planes; these were likely made when glaciers with imbedded rocks ground over them upwards of 12,000 years ago.  In all that time, these marks have not completely worn away.

On his first time out, Stephen's friend Brandon rode in Serendipity with Stephen, while I rode herd in Speedbump.  After that the boys were allowed to go without me, provided they stayed within bounds.

On Rebecca's visit, she was obliged to paddle Musketaquid, since her church's youth program was partly responsible for its construction, while Bea took her first solo paddle in Serendipity.

Rebecca quickly became comfortable. 

Beatrice allowed she might be able to see the attraction of kayaking.

On the last full day, Golda and Linkin agreed to come for a ride.  Linkin made himself comfortable up forward with Stephen--his paws on the foredeck to get a better view.  Golda here rode aft with me.

An odious and over-familiar squirrel, not sufficiently amused with beaning me from above with acorn shells as I sat at the table, came down and stole the orange plastic knife Trevor had made his pb&j with.  We eventually recovered it.

Our last supper at the camp. 

After that we had a little fire and roasted marshmellows.  Stephen tended it. 

 On the last morning, I took Thoreau at his word--"Only that day dawns to which we are awake"--rose at first light, and spent an hour or so walking the wooods alone.  Happening on a scene I thought told a story, I tried my hand at writing about it the way I thought Thoreau might have. 

In an open woodland of oak and pine, a dead tree leans on a live tree.  The two form with the ground an isosceles right triangle, the live tree and the ground forming the right angle, the dead tree, fallen from twenty feet away and landed neatly in a crotch of the living tree twenty feet up, the hypotenuse.  -or not really neatly, since the dead tree shed rotten branches as it struck, which now form a sort of giant squirrel's nest where the two trees come together. 

What happened here?  The living tree is a black oak, tall and straight with the high and narrow crown of a forest-grown tree, its only flaws the vulnerable crotch, a small dead sprout at its base, and a small dead limb in its crown.  From its state of decay and that of its branches, the other was long dead before its fall, so of unknown species, and a little bigger than the one-foot diameter of the black oak.  Perhaps the dead tree got its start a few years or a decade before the living, or perhaps the two were age mates, even siblings, the dead tree's slightly greater and earlier girth the result of a sunnier location, or a little more moisture.  What killed the one?  Not age, but some ill fortune--an infestation of caterpillars or a fungus borne by insects burrowing into its wood, a drought.  Perhaps it died when struck by an earlier dead-fallen tree now long vanished into soil. 

How will events fall now?  Certainly the dead tree has damaged the slender forked oak, and that in a singular stroke of bad luck: the forking stems so narrow that a matter of a few degrees either way in the fall would meant a complete miss.   Perhaps the falling tree was so decayed that it did little damage.  Or perhaps even so the rotting wood provides habitat to a fungal or insect invader.  Moreover, yet another dead tree, somewhat smaller, stands at a similar distance, and inclines a little toward the burdened oak.  Might lightning strike twice?  Indeed standing dead trees are not uncommon in the wood.  Of course, the tall tree might equally benefit from the deaths of neighbors--if they stand southerly, the openings they create allowing more sunlight to feed the tree.  Every forest is indeed a slow race, with the prize of vital sunlight to the tree that can keep its crown above its shading neighbors.  But the future is never secure, and with the vagaries of chance even the most virtuous may succumb before their time.