Country Cookin’ and Bear Camp Pond

My family had different ideas of fun when we went to our rustic, no-running water, no-WiFi, no-heat cabin on a little lake in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

My husband liked rising early on Saturday mornings and hiking a 4,000-foot mountain. He had a map of the White Mountains tacked up on the kitchen wall, with a checkmark on every 4,000-foot peak he had climbed. Some peaks, like Whiteface or Chocorua, had multiple check marks.

Our son would come to love doing the same thing as his father. But when he was young, he wanted to go to the shallow, sandy beach at the end of the lake. He would sit on a rock a few feet into the water and watch the “big” kids jump off the rock and into the lake. Finding the courage to jump off the rock into the lake was a rite of passage for the three and four-year-olds.

I liked to sit on the dock at our cottage, read a book, and listen to the loons.

When we got to the cottage, whether on a Friday night or for vacation, I was tired from a demanding job and the responsibilities of day-to-day family life. I wanted to stop, be quiet, and feel the wind come across the mountains, ripple across the lake, and lap against the rocks under the dock.

No doing. Just being.

We all compromised.

Bear Camp Pond was our happy place. No TV, no cell coverage, no wifi. Just us, the owls, the loons, the moose, and the black bear family that kept its distance.

What we agreed on was Sunday morning at Country Cookin’.

This local diner filled up fast, usually with a long line out the door. There was nothing else like it. Omelets with local eggs. Stacks of blueberry pancakes with local maple syrup and blueberries that grew wild on everyone’s properties. The bears and our dog usually ate most of ours.

The waitresses were speedy. The orders went in and came out fast. There was never a need to look at a menu. We each had our favorites. My husband got the bacon, fried eggs, hash browns, and toast. My son ordered a giant stack of blueberry pancakes. I got the one-egg cheese omelet with a grilled blueberry muffins.

We ate in silence. Our contentment was delicious.

“Mom and Dad, will you give me the Bear Camp cottage as a wedding present,” our son once asked us when he was six.

“Of course!”

Bear Camp was a special retreat. It was the pulse of our family life.

Until I, alone, sold it.

Greg’s disease was advancing to the end. Ian had graduated from art school and worked in LA.

“Will you be OK if I sell the cottage? I know you wanted it as a wedding present.”

“It’s OK, Mom. I’m not sure how often I’ll be back on the East Coast.”

Before deciding to sell, I went to the cottage alone for a long weekend. As I  drove down the narrow, rutted dirt path to the cottage, I came to a stop. A tree had fallen on the road. Greg used to keep a chainsaw in his truck for times like these. I called a neighbor. They’d be up tomorrow. Are you OK, they asked.

I climbed over the tree and walked down the lane to the cottage, opened the back door, turned on the fluorescent kitchen light, and a small army of mice scattered. They’d settled in in our absence.

“You fuckers,” I screamed.

I put a few groceries and bottles of beer in the refrigerator. We never left food out because of the terrorists. Exhausted, I climbed up the loft to bed. Tomorrow, I’d clean the mouse droppings and make some traps.

I was so, so tired—more from sadness than the drive and tree mess.

Just as I was falling asleep, something fell downstairs. A broom? Or was it an animal? Could a raccoon have gotten into the house? Dear God, that would be awful. How would I get it out?

I climbed down the loft ladder, turned on the kitchen light, and saw the mice jump from the kitchen counter to the hanging wire basket full of napkins to a space between the kitchen counters and the back wall. They disappeared before I could swat one. The basket was still swaying from the midnight acrobatic shenanigans.

The tree was cleared from the road the next day, but the mice terrorized me for two more nights. I realized it was time to sell. While the pond, mountains, and giant old hemlocks were as majestic as ever, being here alone was too sad. The place's allure had been us, our little outdoorsy family unit.

On the day of the real estate closing, I left Rhode Island at 5 a.m. My plan was a little comfort food before the pain of signing away our respite.

I pulled into the parking lot of Country Cookin’ at 9 a.m. The house closing was at 11 a.m.

“CLOSED TUESDAYS ‘til Memorial Day.”

I didn’t eat that day.

I lose my appetite when I lose love.

A loon cry is my phone’s voicemail ring tone.