Memories of the four-year-old became tangled within months of being made. Playing in a mountain stream in Vermont, walking up a boardwalk in New Hampshire and leaving sneakers on a rocky beach in Maine soon became, “I lost a shoe playing in The Flume.”
Growing up next to the posterchild of pollution, Lake Erie, the clear streams and unspoiled wilderness, miles of forest, had soaked into the child’s psyche. This was the way nature intended.
Fifty years later, the former vacationland now home, the events are more dictated by logic than memory, but that trip across the northeast still resonate.
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Yes, based on fact. As a child I would say, I lost a shoe playing in The Flume” often, even though I had been corrected a thousand times. I could remember the three events back then (now faded), but I didn’t care. The memory had little to do with truth. It was almost exactly 20 years later when I moved to the region. I remember the first times seeing those places again. How different from the memories, yet how much they were still part of me. And they still are. I will be a champion of wild places until the day I die…