Winslow

The morning after my final Final Exam, I walked south on Kingshighway to the I-70 ramp, caught a ride west, and didn’t return to St. Louis for forty years.

The second summer I hitchhiked from Vancouver to St. John’s Newfoundland, stopping at Prince Edward Island along the way. After looking around, I ended up on the northwest shore, befriended by a family of four, and an uncle. The family harvested seaweed, selling the nutrient rich plant to a pharmaceutical company. And the uncle, I’m not sure what he did, but I learned a lot from him.

Nearly every morning we went for a walk. I learned that he had never left the Island, and had never ventured more than ten miles from the family’s seaside home. The uncle was forty something, but looked much younger. There was something timeless about him - the way he walked, the way he looked, the way he touched the rocks and plants along the inland paths that only he really knew.

I’ve camped the past ten days at Winslow Park, six miles south and east of Freeport.

The sun rises early at Winslow this time of year.

Waking, I thought of the uncle as I looked across the marsh at the cove on the backside of the peninsula.

Before breaking camp, I thought I’d circumnavigate the peninsula, imagining the uncle by my side.

It was a slow walk,

no talking,

and as little thinking as possible.

I’d like to write a book one day, on the order of The Outermost House or A Sand County Almanac, or maybe like Rachel Carson’s The Edge of the Sea.

Every monthly trip to Maine I’d visit Winslow. During the offseason, when the campground is closed, I’d visit once or twice for a few hours. June through September I’d camp. Each visit, lengthy or brief, I’d circumnavigate the peninsula, taking notes and photos, stooping to look and touch, the uncle always by my side.

Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.

- Wallace Stevens