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Near
Bennington, Vt.
Sun., July 19, 1925
Because
of the insects yesterday morning, we could hardly stay down
at the river long enough to take our plunges. Later while
fishing, the only bites Bill got were on his face, neck,
hands, wrists and ankles, even though slathered with fly-oil.
As we prepared to leave our "buggy" camp, a tiny
field mouse played hide and seek between the cylinders of
the motorcycle, remaining there unafraid until Bill started
the engine. At the Seersburg Power Station on the Deerfield
River, we were greeted by the most terrifying sound, like
express trains rushing towards us from every direction--the
starting of the generators. After Bill had an informative
talk with the operator, we drove to Whitingham Dam, a third
as long, but three times higher than Somerset, with an interesting
"Tunnel to Hell," a tremendous concrete funnel
preventing overflow. We camped last night near another power
station, Davis Bridge, also on the Deerfield, and the coldest
water in which we had ever bathed.
In the morning we drove back over the mountain towards Bennington
to this attractive stop I had noticed on our way up. While
I did a huge washing in the brook, Bill caught a couple
of nice trout. After putting them on the fire to "stodge"
for supper, I had the most ideal shower imaginable, lying
back in a perfect armchair in the rocks, under a small,
not too cold, falls.
In my writing now in the tent with the electric light hanging
over my page, and catching faint strains of harp and fiddle
from Bill's earphones. A Bonfire crackles in front, near
the brook, and there is not a bug or beastie to annoy. In
fact this whole camp has been perfect.
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