A fan of Thoreau since high school, my first visit to Walden Pond some twenty years ago was….a disappointment. For us locals, summertime at Walden Pond has long meant lines for limited parking; a small, crowded beach; worn bath facilities; and dirty diapers in the trash.  The pond is a rare swimhole in these parts; and, in the spring and fall, a major tourist spot, buses galore. Some years ago, I visited Walden Pond in November with my pre-school son - and two buses of high school students seeing the sites of Concord and Lexington. Peaceful, it was not. And, then the time, out for foliage walk, where we spotted two huge fish, pale white and bright orange: someone let the goldfish out of the bowl. The Fitchburg train line, the same one that Thoreau comments on, passes within yards of the pond trail, drowning out the wind and the birds. According to my husband, the pile of stones at the site of Thoreau’s cabin is not worth the trip from anywhere. 

Still, I’ve come to appreciate the Walden experience for what it is, a homey mixture of perhaps one part nature to three parts humanity. The pond remains clear and sandy; the sky sparkles blue on the water. Although the gift shop is a 50’s split-level, there are plenty of unique items to peruse. The rangers offer free programs and the toilets are self-composting. I regret the wire fence to each side of the pond trail, but I understand the necessity of preserving the hillside. Recent visitors don’t know the difference. Too bad I didn’t know to cherish my earlier unrestricted access to the pond, as I never realized that wandering among the monoliths of Stonehenge in the 70’s would become an experience forbidden to my children.

And then, a couple weeks ago, I had Walden Pond to myself, the very solitary hour that Thoreau had sought out – but mine was completely by accident. It was an early Sunday morning, cold, bright and windy.  My son and I were headed to Walden Pond for some pictures and “impressions”, as part of a high school assignment. We picked up a pal, Zander, along the way.  Also, as part of the Walden assignment, my son had undertaken a “transcendental” experiment – to stop speaking for a week, except in emergencies or during hockey games. Instead, he used a white board to communicate. During this outing, the experiment was still on, leaving Zander and I to catch up on all the usual chat between 16 year old boy and friend’s mother, on the way over and back.  

 At the pond, they ditched me. That is to say, they headed off while I made a pit stop at the lavatories.  Without my guidance, they went in the wrong direction: the long way around the pond, while I started along the sunny side, headed straight for the cabin site. The sun on the snow was blinding; I had to watch my step. In some places, I could see right through the frozen surface of the pond to the bottom, and I stopped once or twice, looking for fish. I knew the distance; I was not afraid, and I knew by then the boys were on the far side of the pond, out of sight. On the way, I heard strange noises, like distant gunfire or explosions; I figured it out to be the ice cracking. Where Thoreau’s cabin is outlined with markers, I stood inside, looking through the trees down to the water, alone. I had passed no one. I could hear no one, nothing but the booming voice of the pond in a landscape without people, declaring the eternal power and glory of nature. Amen.

N.B. HDT is still my boy, and I've written a short story about a young mother's impulse to retreat from society and renew her bonds with nature, with somewhat comical and tragic results: entitled, "Me and Henry David Thoreau," email or leave me a comment, if interested in reading the story.