Kingsland Bay

by Sara Cogan

The entrance to Kingsland Bay State Park is tucked unobtrusively into a curve of Sand Road, approximately eight miles outside of downtown Vergennes. On an icy winter's day, the least bit of concentration allocated to nursing a car through the turn might result in missing the sign and four-car parking lot entirely. With three sets of eyes peeled for the spot, however, we found it easily, coasted to a stop in front of the park gate, and killed the engine. I sat in the bubble of warm air a minute longer, preparing for the cold blast that would rush in soon enough. I pulled on a hat and mittens, wrapped a scarf tightly around my neck, and opened the door. Let's get to it.

As we skirted the Closed for Winter sign, we paused to greet a couple of horses who had looked up from their grains to follow our every step as we tromped noisily in their direction. I reached out to stroke one of them over the fence that separated us; her coat was thick for the winter, and soft. I could feel the heat of her body against the palm of my smooth, bald hand. She was prepared for the cold by yearly rhythms and cycles that knew, somehow, just the right time to beef up her coat by an extra centimeter or two. In contrast, my hand against her side was pitifully exposed, vulnerable to the cold and wind that accosted it, threatening to turn it shades of purple if I didn't cover it soon. My body didn't grow an extra thick coat for the winter, instead, I had to buy clothes that would serve this purpose. Nature, for some reason, had stripped my body of its protective fur somewhere between the Cro-Magnon era and that of Homo sapiens, and left me here, thousands of years later, coveting this horse who had managed to hold on to hers. When I withdrew my hand from her flanks I hurriedly stuffed it back into a wool mitten and then into the pocket of my down jacket. We left the horses to their meal and continued on the path leading towards Kingsland Bay State Park, aiming to see as much as we could before the sun sank below Vermont's Green Mountains and left us shivering in shadows.

As we walked down the access road towards the park, trees bent from the weight of snow and ice leaned in over the path forming a canopy over our heads. I thought of the beach access near my house in Hawaii where I was used to struggling through sand instead of snow, in bare feet instead of clunky leather hiking boots, with palm and plumeria trees overhead instead of pines. Nevertheless, I was headed to the beach and the thought of water drew me on.

After two hundred yards of anticipation, the sight-lines through the trees on our left revealed Kingsland Bay, namesake of the park. The vista beckoned us, but immediate access was denied as the beach lay at the bottom of a twenty-foot embankment. We spotted a possible path down to the beach and James crouched ready to slide down the pitched slope. "Even if you get down, you're not getting back up again," said Jake, and this sound reasoning discouraged him from sliding. We continued on, searching for a tamer route. As we followed the path and the curve of the bay, a log fence unfolded in front of us, offering formal admission to the park grounds. On the other side of the fence, old buildings spread out before us that had once collectively housed the activities of an all-girls boarding school, but now they were empty. Their doors and windows were firmly closed for the winter, reaffirming the sentiments of the sign we had left behind with the horses.

I approached the nearest building-the Visitors' Center-and climbed its steps to investigate. Maybe the doors were only closed, but not locked….nope, locked too. I walked around the porch, peering into windows at butterfly exhibits, rows of informational pamphlets, and pictures of the park at different periods in time. I circled the building, jiggling windows and door handles without any luck-I wasn't getting in. Admitting defeat, I sank into an Adirondack chair, which sat frozen on the wrap around porch facing out towards Lake Champlain. I tried to settle in and get comfortable, but the wood was cold, making me colder. I leaned back anyway-cringing, but determined to have a look around and ignore the shiver that crept into my bones.

The bay we had walked along lay to the left of me now and a spit of land spread out in front. The perfect site for summer barbecues, I imagined, and tried to warm myself with images of crackling fires, with memories of licking flames that turned cheeks red and marshmallows black. The picnickers were hard to imagine though, until I closed my eyes and the snow melted away-revealing the vibrant greens of summer, the inviting blue of a solar-heated lake, and hordes of kids racing around, ecstatic at the ability to move their bodies, unencumbered by snowsuits of months past. I opened my eyes, then, and summer dissolved. Picnic tables were propped up on fire pits to discourage snow from settling-though it had settled anyway-the grass and the trees, the sounds, sites, and memories of July, were muted by a blanket of snow.

I sat perfectly still, in the reality of January, and listened for the sounds of winter. And when I began to really listen, someone cranked up the volume. The clanking of metal against metal was the loudest and most commanding as wind blew the rope of the flagpole around and the clip that held no flag made contact with the naked pole. Although the pole stood at the water's edge-nearly a hundred feet from where I sat-the sound emanating from its side rang clear and carried far. Quiet and unassuming, water played backup to the erratic melody of this patriotic symbol. The waves lapped against floating chunks of ice, and then against the beach at the places where it was exposed. The sound created by the meeting of water and land was rhythmic, soothing, and I stayed with it for awhile, comfortable, the cold of the chair now only nibbling, not gnawing, at my bum. The quiet of this liquid instrument was shattered every so often by the crackling of its solidified form as plates of ice fractured and grew.

Listening for other sounds of life-of contact, of friction-I heard what I thought must be the distant hum of human activity, and I thought, Vergennes? Was this muffled, indecipherable sound emanating from nearby roads as cars whizzed by on the way to town or back home? Or was it merely a construction of my mind-a mind that was keenly aware of the human activity carrying on elsewhere, perhaps very nearby, but inside, not-as I was-outside? People were around, but they weren't here. They were driving in cars, working in offices, shopping in stores, sitting in homes, by fires, and I was at Kingsland Bay, sitting in a frozen Adirondack.

I pulled myself out of the chair, ready to move. As I stood, waiting for blood flow to bring warmth, I felt as though every calorie of body heat had transferred from my rear to the seat of the chair. It lingered there as I descended from the porch without it-back stiff, leg muscles tense. As I touched down in the snow, I headed right-away from the bay-weaving around fire pits towards the trails that offer hiking in the summer, snow shoeing and cross-country skiing in the winter. These trails followed the water but I didn't. I had left my snowshoes behind and the snow was too deep for a hike in boots, so I cut back towards the other buildings, inland, and began snooping around for an open door. No such luck. I looked into the window of one building that looked to be a theater; I imagined grade-school girls in uniforms assembled in rows of chairs to see a play put on by their classmates. They were warm inside as the snow fell outside. Recess would come after the play-as usual-but it was shorter this time of year. Pleated skirts, even with tights, were little protection against the cold. Even my long undies and industrial-strength jeans weren't adequate on a day like today. But on winter days of the past, little girls trampled into heated buildings to thaw, whereas today, the buildings were empty and the heat turned off, maybe for good.

Or was this building empty? Upon taking a closer look, I saw that there was evidence all over the stage that said otherwise. I stood on tip toes and pressed my nose against the window pane for a better view. There were brown, crumbly mounds spread evenly over the stage as if in formation for a dance routine. Termites, I thought. The mounds were probably compilations of droppings and wooden shavings that had fallen as they borrowed in the support beams above. These crafty insects carried on despite the cold, without the need for heaters, or an extra coat. Winter came every year but like the horses-and unlike me-they were suited for it. They knew where to go, and how to survive. A sizeable community lived within the walls and ceiling of this structure, which had first been built, and then abandoned, by humans.

Tracks outside, on trails and around buildings, indicated that humans continued to come and go here-some recently-but none stayed for the winter. They layered up for a snow shoe or a ski; they kept moving to keep the cold from seeping through fleece and Gore-Tex, and then they hopped back into their cars, cranked up the heat, and sped home to fireplaces and gas-propelled heaters. In the summer, people throng here-for the scenery, for a touch of nature-and they stay all day, sometimes into the evening to watch the sun set and the stars rise around campfires. As summer chills into fall, however, visitors pack up and depart, leaving Kingsland Bay to its better adapted residents-the birds, squirrels, insects, deer, and fish. Ahh…I imagine that each one of them breathes a sigh of relief as they watch the coolers packed up and the cars driven away, content with the knowledge that the transient invaders have retreated inside for the winter.

With a shiver, I left the termites to their work and headed down towards the bay. Access was easy from this side and I was soon walking along the beach, and then out onto the ice. For at least twenty feet, the surface of the bay was frozen solid, but geometric shapes gave the image of a mosaic on the smooth surface. The contiguous plane had broken apart, at some point, I imagined, into hundreds of separate ice floats, which had drifted, free, until the "Indian Summer" gave way to wintry sub-zero days that forced the pieces into bondage once again. Further from land, however, floes still cruised the bay solo, drifting near each other but not yet constricted by winter. From where I stood, however, suspended by H2O molecules held captive, the freedom allowed by warmer days was only a memory. I walked gingerly back onto the beach-feeling more secure, as usual, with solid ground under my feet-and then scrambled up the embankment knocking snow into my boots and gloves in the process. I rejoined the trail and found Jake and James waiting for me. My feet were wet; a chill was seeping through down, wool, and leather and into my bones. Back to the car. Our stay was over, and we would leave Kingsland Bay as we had found it: empty of humans, but full of life.

How to get there: Take Route 7 north to Vergennes, turning left at the junction with Route 22A and following 22A south through the downtown center (Main Street).Shortly before you would cross the Otter Creek, turn right (west) onto MacDonough Drive--which soon becomes Sand Road--and follow it for about 8 miles till you reach the park entrance

Entrance to the park off of Sand Road.

Welcome!

A first glimpse of Kingsland Bay.

Entering the park.

A view of Kingsland Bay from the lodge porch.

A hiking trail snakes along the edge of Kingsland Bay to its intersection with Lake Champlain.

Tracks of native residents on the frozen and snow-covered bay.