On a small lake in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York is the “Woods Camp”, a collection of boathouses and cabins surrounding a central log home known as the “Beehive”. The Camp and the mountain lake upon which it sits have been the inspiration for and the basis of many stories, poems and songs written, sung or told by members of the Woods family.[1] The “Ghost Stories” told by Bill Woods in the Beehive bedroom known as the “Dark Hole” have never been recorded or published, perhaps because of their horrifying impact on young children. However, other books, songs and poems by family members are available in print or digital form. One such poem is “The Place” by the American poet Jeffrey Harrison.[2]
Photo of Bisby Mountain © All Rights Reserved. Nicholas L Campbell, 2022.
After years of going back to a place you love,
You may have so many memories of the place
That whenever you think about it you become
Calm and still as the lake at evening
When the hills and trees are mirrored there.
You can imagine your way back any time,
Following trails you know by heart, with arteries
Of roots, and you hold onto the place inside
The way the tentacle roots of a birch
Grip a granite boulder shagged with ferns.
But there is always something calling you back
Further, to childhood summers spent there,
Or even further, beyond specific memories,
Until memory itself, in its purest form,
Is made of blue lakes nestled into foothills
And rivers the color of ale plunging over
Rust-orange rocks then deepening for long still stretches
Where pines and hemlocks lean out over the bank,
As you lean too, thinking, wherever you are.
And when you think of actually going back,
You can already feel how that place in you
Will go rushing out to meet the real place,
Which itself, will lie before you, more vivid
Than you remembered it, or more vivid because
You remembered it, each layer of your memory
Adding a bluer gloss to the lake’s surface
And polishing the leaves until they shine
The South Branch of the Moose River, not far from First Bisby Lake, is a stream in which extended members of the Woods family have taught their young offspring how to fly fish. Those children, now grown, have memories of standing in the pre-dawn darkness, knee deep in chilled water, with fly rod in hand. Because of inexperience, the young trainees stood throughout many early mornings netting very few fish, but catching many beautiful sunrises.
There’s a sunrise over the mountains
As the stars fade from the sky
There’s a gray mist rising from our peaceful stream
As the water meanders by
Birds start their songs from dew covered trees
As fish begin to rise
And the babbling brook seems to call one forth
To worship the dawn with your very own eyes
So come venture forth through the brisk morning air
Wet your feet in the dew
Come walk with me through the woods by the stream
And worship the day as it dawns anew, … For
There’s a sunrise over the mountains
As the stars fade from the sky
There’s a gray mist rising from our peaceful stream
As the water meanders by
Birds start their songs from dew covered trees
As fish begin to rise
And the babbling brook seems to call one forth
To worship the dawn with your very own eyes
But don’t take my word come see for yourself
Witness what I’ve tried to name
But don’t hesitate for the dawn won’t last long
And will never come again quite the same[3]
[1] Although this short piece focuses on those family members who are story tellers, poets and novelists, the Woods Camp and surrounds have inspired other family members to excel in the visual arts, dance, music performance, puppetry, photography and cinematography.
[2] “The Place” From The Names of Things, © 2006 by Jeffrey Harrison (The Waywiser Press, Chipping Norton, UK).
[3] “Sunrise” © All Rights Reserved. Ledyard Campbell LLC (an Ohio LLC) May 2021