Ben and I had expected snow, but a previous week of sunshine melted it to a manageable depth; we left our snowshoes in the back of his truck. Walking up the hill from our car, we noticed that the US Forest Service had posted a sign:

This area is closed to all motor vehicles
to provide the quiet and solitude
that is so rare in our daily lives.

Hiking to the lake, side-by-side, Ben and I would miss out on the "solitude" so rare in our daily lives, but he was the quiet-type. We hiked in silence.

I had been to this trail once last spring, just as the early mud-season was draining into summer. Tires clanked and splashed as I climbed the trail on my mountain bike. Trees became blurs as I concentrated on the rocky trail before me. The Falls were noisy then, as spring thaws rushed and gained water from their hosts--the Green Mountains. Water spilled over the top of the falls--breaking against boulders before crashing into its pools below. Teenagers and college students splashed in the swimming holes formed by a thousand years of thawings, and their voices carried upwards to the campsites and fire pits above. Parents grilled hotdogs for cheering children, campers sang by the light of their flaming marshmallows, and drunken college students yelled threats to the silent sky.

Ben and I had hardly walked ten minutes before passing below a water tunnel four-meters above the ground. A sign posted directly below the pipe gave a glorified explanation of the 5,000-foot-long eyesore called a penstock. The sign's title read, "The Power of Water." A diagram described its pathway from Sugar Hill Reservoir, to Silver Lake, to Lake Dunmore, and downstream to the Salisbury Generating Station where a hydrological power plant converts the power of the water into electricity for 820 homes. I could neither see nor hear water flowing inside, but the thought of blasting radios and humming driers--echoing from the valley below--broke my peace of mind.
As we continued our ascent along the wide trail as it cut above the eastern edge of the Falls of Lana, I watched my companion's face for a reaction to the ugly water pipe. Ben was a native Vermonter--committed to the preservation of his sparsely developed state--but he gave no sign of disgust. His face was still. In the meantime, I was anxious to show Ben the falls where I had watched the water crash and swirl last spring. Sunshine, hikers, and snowmobilers--maybe they had missed the sign--had packed the trail. An outhouse marked a division in the trail: one could either continue up the one-mile trail to Silver Lake or simply cross a small bridge to the left, where a dozen trails twisted around campsites and dropped down near the falls.

Snow covered the familiar paths of summer, but I led Ben by memory. An icy climb to an outcropping offered an extended view of Lake Dunmore, the Champlain Valley, and the Adirondack Mountains. Ben stared quietly over the familiar Vermont valleys; his dark eyes drank in the view as if it all was about to change. I grew impatient from his sad and prolonged observation, and edged myself along a narrow ledge to peer into the depths of the water. The falls seemed so silent. The springtime rush, the campfire laughter, and the howls of drunken teenagers were frozen in layers of ice, clinging to the edge. A whispering trickle leaked into the summer swimming holes that, now, looked uninviting against their wintry backdrop. Where was the powerful stream that had inspired me last spring?
"Be careful, Kelly. It's steep!" Ben warned. I scooted closer to the top of the cliff--more for his attention than to see the falls. My boot disrupted a chunk of ice and I watched as it tumbled off my ledge and into the nearly frozen pools of water below. It splashed with warning.

Returning to the main trail, we diverted uphill from the falls following a small stream on our left. Finally, the native spoke: "These are paper birch trees."
.
"Huh?" I was watching the snowmobile tracks at our feet.
"Their bark looks like paper. Those over there, with the elephant-skin trunks--they're beech trees. You can tell, because they keep some of their leaves in winter," he spoke like an expert, and I was suddenly intrigued; Ben seemed to know his trees. "Here, taste this." He handed me a maroon branch. "It's dogwood. It tastes like wintergreen."

I munched on the frayed edges of the stick, but it tasted more like toothpicks than a breath-saver. Unexpectedly, a white grin appeared from behind Ben's dark beard. "I guess it's not fresh enough," he laughed. I spit out the dogwood bits and hiked to catch up with Ben, who had already continued up the trail.

The hike to Silver Lake was short. We came to a sign for the Silver Lake Recreation Area, said nothing, and parted ways so that each of us could explore the lake alone. I walked across a bridge to a service building located on the edge of the water, where the lake becomes a stream. I was on top of a dam. A grated platform allowed me to stand above the water and listen to the metallic clank of the lake draining through rusty grates and concrete. The accelerating creek water was unable to infiltrate through its pavement tunnel, so it bubbled quickly with the sound of mumbling voices. I didn't mind the mumbling--I was craving conversation. The frozen lake looked calm and collected, never cracking a smile as it waited quietly on the other side of the dam. My eyes squinted to sift out its glare--I had forgotten my sunglasses--and I had to watch the lake only in short increments to avoid a headache. The draining water reminded me of the second cup of coffee I had drunk with breakfast; I walked off the dam to find an outhouse as pressure built against my bladder.

Two snowmobiles were stopped just outside the outhouse.
"Beautiful out here, huh?" asked an over-weight, gray-bearded man who spotted me as I crossed the trail to the outhouse.

I agreed with a nod, wondering if they, too, had missed the "no motor vehicles" sign.

"Quite a morning," the other snowmobiler glanced towards me and remarked. A blonde, leather-faced woman, she smiled just enough to prevent her cigarette from slipping out of her lips. In a rush to get to the bathroom, I politely waved good-bye. Their engines roared and faded into the forest while I sat inside the outhouse. Snow and distance drowned out the snarl of their engines, but they left their tracks and cigarette ashes behind.

I couldn't find Ben, so I explored the shore alone. A six-inch layer of snow covered the division between land and water, so I stepped by faith that the shore would not break through. Small prints dotted the shoreline in and out of the shadows of pines; they led to a fur-filled indention in the snow. I plopped down beside it to fill my solitude with thoughts and memories.

The day was hot, and I had just completed the climb on my bike. I stood on the shores, too ashamed to jump into the lake. Mud had dried to my calf muscle and chain grease streaked my leg. I wanted to swim. I wanted to strip naked--bare chest and pale thighs submerged in the landscape of Silver Lake. But I stayed on shore, afraid that I'd be seen.

The ice was thick. Nothing would break through until spring. I sprawled my body--chest down--across the ice, just to feel its cold penetrate my layers of wool and my coat. Even if I wanted to swim, the solid lake would refuse me. I could dive for the frozen surface, but--in the end--the lake would be quiet and I would still be alone.

I walked to the trail and waited for Ben. He emerged from the forest across the way, pretending at first not to see me but still walking towards the trail. He stepped onto the ice, trusting the power of the lake to hold him. He left his footprints in the untouched surface of snow--walking quietly, in solitude.

Walking up the hill from our car, we noticed that the US Forest Service had posted a sign.

How to get there: drive south of Middlebury on U.S. 7, then turn left (east) on route 53 which parallels the eastern shore of Lake Dunmore. Find the trailhead at a parking area just south of the entrance to Lake Dunmore State Park, on the lefthand side of the highway

"The Power of Water"

The springtime rush, the campfire laughter, and the howls of drunken teenagers were frozen in layers of ice, clinging to the edge.

I walked across a bridge to a service building located on the edge of the water where the lake becomes a stream.

Their engines roared and faded into the forest while I sat inside the outhouse.

He left his footprints in the untouched surface of snow-walking quietly in solitude.