“I went to the woods to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life. And see if I could not learn what it had to teach. And not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” This may be Henry David Thoreau’s inspiration for coming here, but I went to the woods in flip flops, and then got lost with my two year old daughter in tow. As we went deeper and deeper through the roads less traveled, I still didn’t know where we were going, but I stopped wondering or even caring.
Walden Pond itself is a still, calm openness. A tranquil intermission amidst a world in constant battle with Father Time; protected in a bubble of woods that are thick enough to block out the sounds of trucks, sirens, and horns. It is open to guests all year to enjoy picnicking, hiking, swimming, canoeing, and cross-country skiing. Imagine this hidden treasure less than 20 miles out of Boston, right off Rt. 2, but what you experience is innocence, peace, and time. What water park can offer that with parking at just $5 a day?
On the path in front of you are thousands of footprints, each one erasing the last, but in the forbidden nature to the right and left are woods and banks that haven’t been impeded by a heavy foot or disturbed by shoe treads in hundreds of years. Trees have fallen, yet no one knows if they made a sound. A couple of small beaches line the pond, and I noticed the remnants of a sandcastle from a very talented upcoming builder that included half a mote and a guest house in the back. Drifting mid-pond is a lone fisherman in his canoe with his lure cast, and patiently waiting for a tug. An older couple strolls by holding hands, talking, laughing, enjoying the finer side of life, and each other. Passing faces greet you with a friendly smile. The paths wind and turn and every new bend brings a new image of light, color, and perspective. With the rest of the world silenced, you are free to hear the birds chirping, chipmunks scurrying, and distant laughter as children create the purest memories.
The biggest draw to this sight is the exact location in which Thoreau spent his time. A pile of rocks sits beside the buried foundation on which Thoreau’s one room cabin stood. People have left painted rocks, written notes on them (One read, “In memory of the truth that rests inside you, Thank you.”), and there in the middle of the rubble lay an old leather bound book which was now only the tattered and worn cover and the unattached bindings. “Go thou my incense upward from this hearth” reads the stone where his chimney had smoked 163 years earlier, and you could almost feel his spirit whirl as the wind managed to slip through the thick wood and pass by the nape of your neck.
Before realizing that we had been out there for hours, and my daughter had given up on walking, I stood where his front door had been and saw what he saw upon waking in the morning, “Simplicity! Simplicity! Simplicity!” Then as I drove back onto to the bustling Rt. 2 and someone was nice enough to cut me off, I wondered if I should just turn around and go back in.
Walden Pond itself is a still, calm openness. A tranquil intermission amidst a world in constant battle with Father Time; protected in a bubble of woods that are thick enough to block out the sounds of trucks, sirens, and horns. It is open to guests all year to enjoy picnicking, hiking, swimming, canoeing, and cross-country skiing. Imagine this hidden treasure less than 20 miles out of Boston, right off Rt. 2, but what you experience is innocence, peace, and time. What water park can offer that with parking at just $5 a day?
On the path in front of you are thousands of footprints, each one erasing the last, but in the forbidden nature to the right and left are woods and banks that haven’t been impeded by a heavy foot or disturbed by shoe treads in hundreds of years. Trees have fallen, yet no one knows if they made a sound. A couple of small beaches line the pond, and I noticed the remnants of a sandcastle from a very talented upcoming builder that included half a mote and a guest house in the back. Drifting mid-pond is a lone fisherman in his canoe with his lure cast, and patiently waiting for a tug. An older couple strolls by holding hands, talking, laughing, enjoying the finer side of life, and each other. Passing faces greet you with a friendly smile. The paths wind and turn and every new bend brings a new image of light, color, and perspective. With the rest of the world silenced, you are free to hear the birds chirping, chipmunks scurrying, and distant laughter as children create the purest memories.
The biggest draw to this sight is the exact location in which Thoreau spent his time. A pile of rocks sits beside the buried foundation on which Thoreau’s one room cabin stood. People have left painted rocks, written notes on them (One read, “In memory of the truth that rests inside you, Thank you.”), and there in the middle of the rubble lay an old leather bound book which was now only the tattered and worn cover and the unattached bindings. “Go thou my incense upward from this hearth” reads the stone where his chimney had smoked 163 years earlier, and you could almost feel his spirit whirl as the wind managed to slip through the thick wood and pass by the nape of your neck.
Before realizing that we had been out there for hours, and my daughter had given up on walking, I stood where his front door had been and saw what he saw upon waking in the morning, “Simplicity! Simplicity! Simplicity!” Then as I drove back onto to the bustling Rt. 2 and someone was nice enough to cut me off, I wondered if I should just turn around and go back in.
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