Upon awakening, I detected a familiar scent of moistened pine needles pervading the landscape. Few fragrances comforted me more than this woodland’s earthy aroma, and so I meandered among the hickories and evergreens without any urgency in my stride. It was no later than early spring. Most of the trees’ deciduous leaves hadn’t fully emerged, revealing acres of naked pine and birch that looked like marble columns among the darker varieties of spruce. The air of this undetermined forest felt closer to what a northern traveler might’ve associated with the month of March. Despite the season, the full sunlight produced a temperate climate for walking.
As I progressed across this unspoiled landscape, the underbrush eventually thinned and I noticed signs verifying that I hadn’t been the only man to hike here. A trail of boot prints marked the sodden ground ahead of my own. Of course, I already suspected that my purpose here didn’t revolve around admiring the solitude of a sylvan retreat. As I had practiced on my previous adventures, I moved onward, following the imprints of a woodsman who most likely cherished the sanctity of this land as much as I did. Soon thereafter, I crossed a brambly terrain, which might’ve slowed my advance considerably had the ground not already been partially cleared by the individual I now pursued.
After I ascended a natural elevation in the topography, my eyes settled upon a structure of modest proportions. The dwelling, which appeared constructed from axe-hewn pine, a single chimney, and a tightly shingled roof, was no larger than ten feet in length, and perhaps one and a half that size in width. When examining the house at closer range through one of its two large framed windows, I realized that its owner was not at home. The abode’s contents included a cot, a table, and three chairs. My inspection continued outside the grounds, until I ultimately focused on a pond glistening with diamond-colored water. I required no further landmarks within this region to single out my present whereabouts. Throughout my lifetime I had often imagined the tranquility attached to Massachusetts’ most celebrated body of water. At least I now could’ve finally declared that the sight of Walden Pond hadn’t dissatisfied my expectations. I stood in rapt attention as a skein of geese passed overhead and landed on the water’s surface. I presumed that the transcendentalist who constructed a cabin about sixty paces from this pond’s perimeter would’ve surely noticed my arrival by now.
My wait to unite with this hermetic author lasted no longer than it took me to stand on the pond’s pebbled fringes. The man who conducted an experiment in self-sufficiency within this habitat for two years was known as Henry David Thoreau. While still a relatively young man who had not yet passed his thirtieth birthday, he had a somewhat gaunt, weathered face, and was much leaner than I previously imagined. Since I was aware that he welcomed frequent visitors to his cottage—both friends and curious strangers—I didn’t expect to generate too much commotion from him when he noticed me.
Despite his lanky stature, Thoreau looked spiritually nourished by what the land provided for him. He stood in the chilled air well suited for such conditions. Presumably, because I knew about his notions of civil disobedience, I’d have an advantage in any interaction we engaged in. I had no misconceptions about Thoreau’s philosophical finesse; I only hoped to appear reflective for his achievements in unconventional concepts. He certainly influenced me as a younger man, but I obviously ventured here to learn from his experiences rather than laud them.
If Thoreau found anything distracting about my company, I guessed that it derived from my clothing. But before commenting on my foreign attire, his ears seemed to perk from the sides of his derby. The pealing whistle from a nearby train reminded us both that we weren’t too far removed from the society that he intended—at least for twenty-six months—to segregate himself from. In his own words, Thoreau had already chastised the Fitchburg Railroad’s encroachment. By now, I gathered that he had conditioned himself to withhold any impulsive outbursts regarding the train’s interference with his bid for inner harmony. Yet, he cringed at the mere sound of the iron horse as its coal engine belched black plumes of smoke into the morning sky.
“Let them call this progress if they wish,” he hollered while wagging a clenched fist at the coal steamer. For a moment, I suspected that he would’ve ignored me entirely. “Apparently,” he continued, “the four-legged horse isn’t swift enough to get us to our destinations on time. I might not be so offended by this prospect if a good majority of folks explained to me the necessity of rushing from one place to another for their whole lives through.”
In order to realign his thoughts with nature, Thoreau turned his attention back toward Walden Pond. He watched the water’s surface ripple as the train chugged through the woodland’s environs. By the time the cargo train had tracked out of earshot, I found myself positioned beside him. He didn’t acknowledge my presence until I was assertive enough to speak to him directly.
“I’ve always dreamed of living out here in a place like this,” I told him.
“Is there something I’m failing to perceive that’s stopping you from fulfilling your dream, stranger?” he asked.
“Forgive my intrusion, sir,” I resumed. “My name is Corbin Cobbs and I’ve come to find a vision similar to your own.”
“I suppose I’ll show my gratitude for your support after you answer my question,” he remarked.
“What do you want to know?”
“Why haven’t you made a shelter for yourself in the woods if you desire to do so?”
Although I had pondered this scenario long before he asked me, I never verbalized my feelings about it until now. “In many ways, I have always been connected to the woods,” I declared. “Walden Pond reminds me of a lake near my own home. I can’t claim that I’ve lived as simply as you during your stay here, but I believe it’s a curative lifestyle.”
Perhaps my confession sounded rehearsed, and for this reason Thoreau may have assumed that I was placating him. “Are you living in town now?”
“Not in Concord, but my home is similar in its proximity to the woods.”
“So what brings you to Walden Pond?”
“Maybe the expectation of peace and privacy.”
“Then you’re in quest of an illusion, sir,” he said.
Thoreau’s response baffled me initially. After all, hadn’t the days and nights he thus far invested at this site afforded him with the luxury of voluntary solitude? At the very least, I hoped he’d explain his dismissal of what I always maintained as the most essential aspect of his temporary residence on Emerson’s property.
“I suppose Ellery must’ve sent you here to check on my progress,” Thoreau surmised. “If that’s the gist of your sojourn, Mr. Cobbs, you may ensure my friend that all is as it must be. Spring’s coming back to Walden Pond, and my journals are inked margin to margin.”
“I’m glad to know this,” I returned, “but I’m not here to report on your business.” Thoreau paced one step nearer to me, almost so that the pond’s water lapped against his boots. Both of our reflections now cast side-by-side in the clear dark water. A few strands of sunlight creased through a screen of evergreens on the pond’s opposite bank. In this morning’s clarity, the water looked as if it was sheathed in a thin layer of cellophane.
“The water’s fairly deep,” Thoreau assured me, “but as it is with anything worth inspecting, it’s not fathomless.” Without further encouragement, I bent to one knee in the undergrowth beside the pond’s embankment to espy an unobstructed glimpse of my image in the water. Unlike the abolitionist beside me, who hitched his happiness to simplistic endeavors, I saw nothing in my reflection that resembled anything remotely salvageable. In order to avoid any further introspection of my character, I scuttled away from the water. Thoreau already suspected that my visitation to these premises would’ve not endured much longer.
“We only have a short time together,” I confirmed. “As you can plainly see, I’m not a very healthy man.”
“Aren’t we all passing between the seasons of our lives?” Thoreau questioned. “Wouldn’t it
be a natural wonder if we could just suspend the springtime of our moments forever?”
“I guess most of us waste a lot of energy wishing for more time. Up until recently, I fooled myself into believing that I had made good use of mine.”
Thoreau’s eyes softened like wet clay as he looked at me. He was an old sage embodied in a young frame. The irony of this observation, of course, was that he was over a decade my junior at this juncture. Age by itself was rarely an accurate indicator of a man’s hold on wisdom. I still hoped to profit from any insight he elected to impart to me.
“I won’t presume to know the type of illness that afflicts you,” he said. “But my intuition tells me that you’re hunting for a wedge of sanctity from a pie set on a sill too lofty for even the most ambitious hands to grasp.”
“Is it too much for me to hope for what you have secured?”
Thoreau threw open his arms, permitting a misty breeze to filter between his calloused fingertips. “If this is the elegance you seek,” he decried, “then it can be obtained for not much more than twenty-eight dollars and change. Oh, I’m certain my friend Ralph wouldn’t be so liberal with the extension of his property without some form of compensation on your behalf, but he’d be flexible for an earnest gentleman.”
“Maybe I’m not being clear,” I remarked. “I’m not aiming to reside here specifically.”
“Too bad for that decision,” Thoreau chortled. “You know, for a fellow who doesn’t know beans about life, you’d certainly have an ample share to harvest on this acreage.”
I appreciated what I didn’t anticipate from this trendsetter, and that was a brand of wry humor not easily deciphered from his prose or poetry. “What you possess,” I then informed him, “is the foresight to understand what others have conveniently ignored. I know what has sickened me, and I’ve watched the woman I love succumb to progression’s false promises. Now I must sift through the wreckage of my marriage in order to rediscover myself.”
My statement spawned no reaction from Thoreau at first. Instead, he focused on a noise in the nearby thicket. Submitting to his curiosity, I turned my head in the same direction as him to examine the source of this disturbance. An unidentified animal with bristled hair scurried into a patch of thick-bladed grass weeping over the pond’s shallow edges.
“There it is,” said Thoreau, excitedly motioning to what I first presumed to be a muskrat. Before I had time to correct myself, the philosopher jogged my memory. “Blasted woodchuck,” he grumbled. “It devoured my strawberries and blackberries last season. Would you brand me as a savage, Mr. Cobbs, if I considered making a meal of that ravager?”
If Thoreau truly sought a response from me, I didn’t feel entitled to provide him with one. He continued to observe the animal as it went about its way. Thoreau never ventured near the woodchuck, of course, but he wanted me to think otherwise. “Had I been hungry,” he mentioned, “I might’ve boiled that little rascal for supper, but for now I’ll keep to beans and rice.”
“I always presumed you were a vegetarian anyway?”
“Not yet, sir. If I don’t become more proficient at farming, I suspect that this forest will soon surrender a fair portion of its native occupants.” Whether or not Thoreau intended for me to take him at his word remained a mystery. When I failed to comment on this matter, he straightened his lips and returned to a more personal topic. “What are you hungering for now?”
“I…I have no appetite,” I replied.
“Ah, but you must. From where I’m standing, I see a famished energy brewing in your eyes. I’d say that your mind is tangled with feelings that rival the densest regions of this forest.”
Thoreau’s perceptiveness didn’t wholly surprise me. I had been impressed by his logic since my youth, and suddenly felt compelled to relay my darkest secrets to him. “I’ve been betrayed,” I announced. “When a wife and friend turn against you, where else does one go to seek refuge?”
My host nodded his head dutifully, while seeming two strides ahead of me in his musings. “Did you venture to my cabin in search for a remedy to this condition?” he inquired.
“I can’t say for sure. In the past, I’ve managed to recover from my setbacks when surrounded by the woods. It’s always given me clarity, and I’m able to concentrate on things that take me away from the pain of reality.”
“There’s no way to exist without experiencing sorrow. Try as we might, we cannot insulate ourselves from our neighbors indefinitely. Our inborn instinct for communication eventually lures us back to the circles within civilization.”
“But aren’t you happier out here in nature by yourself?”
“Mr. Cobbs, I don’t intend to commingle with the birds and trees in isolation forever. Once I prove that I can survive without superfluous materials, my study here will be finished.”
“And what lesson do you hope to take with you after it’s complete?”
“The most basic one,” Thoreau insisted. “In the game of survival, you must rely on yourself more so than anybody else.”
“In that line of thinking, I’ll have no one to blame for my failures but myself,” I muttered.
“Yes,” Thoreau agreed. “Imagine if we all lived in a world where each man acknowledged his own shortcomings? If our society followed such an ethical code, I’m convinced old grudges would soon fade.”
“I don’t know if I’m prepared to do that.”
“None of us are. But if should you manage to do so, you’ll find it easier to leave the forest, knowing, of course, that you may return any time the inclination strikes.”
After Thoreau conveyed this nugget of wisdom to me, he hobbled up a worn trail toward his cabin. I soon followed behind him, realizing that my footsteps traced the same ground conditioned by his boots. He had clearly carved a footpath between the sedge and picker bushes. Half way between the cabin and pond, Thoreau rotated his head slightly to monitor my progress. He wasn’t shocked to see that I failed to diverge from the route he already created.
“All men should find their own way out of the thicket,” he noted. “Never let a heavily trafficked trail lead you astray.” I tinkered with the prospect of jumping outside the boundaries of this path, but remained stationary. Rays of sunlight spilled through the treetops and illuminated my face, providing me with the warmth I so often craved. Thoreau must’ve noticed my hesitation. He stood by watching me, perhaps realizing that I couldn’t shadow his movement much longer. “Are you ready to tread on fresh ground now, Mr. Cobbs?”
“I suppose I am.”
“Then good sailing to you, sir.”
After a few seconds, with my face still tinted by daylight, I exhaled a breath and declared in near reverie, “I’ll follow the sun from here, Mr. Thoreau.”
“The morning star is always a good starting point, and perhaps an equally effective ending point,” he remarked casually. “However, I hope you’ll discover something closer to home to enlighten you in your travels.”
I might’ve followed him longer because I’m certain Thoreau had more to teach me. But rather than pursue any more knowledge from him directly, I returned to the pond to study my reflection in its surface. Where does true happiness lie? Does it come unexpectedly to an occupied man, as Thoreau once mused, like a butterfly settling upon his shoulder? I searched deeper into the water’s rippled edges, while dreading the weary eyes staring back at me. A humbling thought then struck me like a thunderbolt. What if my best days had passed me by? Hadn’t I already squandered years trying to rekindle the lost enchantment of childhood? Was it even possible to retrace the trails of my youth and expect to find them as they once were?
Long before my encounter with Henry David Thoreau, his most famous memoir taught me something important about lofty dreams. He encouraged such enterprises, but he also noted that people failed at achievement when they had no foundation beneath their floating palaces. By this hour, most of my groundwork had crumbled and submerged into Walden Pond’s churning undercurrents. My journey
was coming to an end. I wanted to believe that my heart was cured, and this water served as a serum to purify my mind. But as the woods became blurry before my eyes, I couldn’t yet claim emancipation from the disease that escorted me here.
Chapter 65
4:44 P.M.
The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs Page 65