Woodswoman By Storm
As Walden Pond is to Henry David Thoreau, so Black Bear Pond is to Anne LaBastille—well, sort of. Black Bear Pond is actually a pseudonym for Twitchell Lake. Located in Webb, Herkimer County, Twitchell Lake is remote, with Old Forge, Big Moose, and Stillwater Reservoir being its nearest communities.
Anne LaBastille lived alone in a cabin she built herself, deep in the wilderness. She was an author, ecologist, guide, Adirondack Park Agency commissioner, and much more. Her four books detailing her wilderness life are truly extraordinary. For a more comprehensive account of her life's work and personal background, I recommend her obituary from Adirondack Life (link to obituary).
Since reading 3.5/4 books in the Woodswoman series, I’ve hoped to visit ‘Black Bear Lake.’ When Anne passed away, per her wishes, her estate donated her property to the State of New York, and by doing so the property is now protected by the ‘forever wild’ clause in the NYS Constitution. To ‘find’ the property on the map, I used a mapping app (HuntStand) which shows the owner of each parcel—I looked for a parcel on Twitchell (Black Bear Lake) owned by the state, and one with a smaller pond accessible through the forest behind what would’ve been her main cabin—this cabin was disassembled and brought to the Adirondack Experience (museum) in Blue Mountain Lake.
My adventure did not start off well, unfortunately. Coming from downtown Old Forge my map presented me with two options: 1. North Street via Old Forge, or 2. Big Moose Road via Eagle Bay. I’d taken option 2 before—en route to Stillwater, so I decided to switch it up. North Street pretty rapidly (maybe a mile?) turned into a dirt road, which in and of itself is no problem, but the further I drove the rougher and narrower the road became. Eventually, after at least 30 minutes, I came upon a gate and could go no further. All told, I added about an hour of unnecessary driving to get back to my starting point. Option 2 worked out beautifully—GPS said 33 minutes from Old Forge.
Within minutes of launching my kayak and heading down the lake, I heard a distant rumble of thunder. A smarter person might have turned back, but I had invested considerable time and resources to get here. Besides, it was a relatively short paddle to Anne’s former property. With no roads connecting her property to the small parking lot and boat launch at the base of the lake, paddling was my only legal option (though I suppose I could ski or snowshoe in the winter).
Ironically, as I paddled to an increasingly louder soundtrack of thunder, I reflected on Anne’s stories of the dangerous trips she endured to reach her cabin—especially her winter treks to and from the same parking lot where I’d left my car. About two-thirds of the way, I began to feel sporadic raindrops. Having experienced brief rain showers over the past two days, I figured this one would pass quickly. I mostly disrobed and stowed my clothes and bag under the front end of my kayak—no point in burdening myself with heavy, wet clothes for the rest of the trip if I could avoid it. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me: Anne was a frequent skinny-dipper, and here I was, not far behind.
As I approached Anne’s property, I noticed a modest dock surrounded by mountain holly (Ilex mucronata). Still, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d arrived at the right spot. Typically, the state removes structures from properties it acquires, as it had done with Anne’s cabin. Would they have left an unmarked dock? I wasn’t certain, but with rain falling in earnest and thunder echoing louder than ever, I hauled my kayak onto the dock and pushed through the mountain holly. I tucked my belongings further under cover, retrieved my clothes, and tipped the kayak against a tree, hoping to keep my seat and bag dry.
The final book in Anne’s Woodswoman series
Now I had a dilemma: what would I do if the storm worsened? With Anne’s cabin gone, retreating onto the lake seemed both dangerous (wielding a long metal paddle in a thunderstorm) and disheartening. Yet, what other options did I have to stay safe and dry? Frustrated with my stubbornness, I mentally berated myself for venturing out despite the ominous forecast.
My dry spot
A small clearing—the site of Anne’s former cabin—was exposed to the rain, leaving me the tallest object in the vicinity. So, like any person with common sense, I chose to stand under a tree—though not the tallest one! Knowing that a balsam fir offered decent cover, I found one within view of the cabin site and sat beneath it.
Memorial near the site of Anne’s cabin
The rain eased just enough for me to dart back to my kayak and grab my bag before returning to my dry spot under the balsam. There I sat, as the rain and thunder resumed, Anne’s book in hand. I had intentionally saved the last few chapters of her final book for this very moment, and I couldn’t have been more grateful for the decision.
Me, in Anne’s forest
Sitting in this thin space, I let Anne’s words drift slowly into my mind. I lingered over paragraphs, rereading especially poignant sentences. There I was, sitting under a tree just a stone’s throw from where Anne had lived and written these very experiences she so generously shared with me and countless other readers.
By the time I finished and closed her final Woodswoman book, the storm had passed—I was free to explore her haven! Anne often referred to her forest as “old growth” throughout her series, though I’ve always approached such claims with a touch of skepticism. The most concise definition I can offer for old growth is a forest with a diversified canopy structure—open in some places, closed in others—with a mix of old and younger trees, large standing snags (dead trees), and substantial nurse logs (fallen logs, typically wet and moss-covered, serving as fertile ground for new growth). These unique ecosystems also provide habitat for species sensitive to disturbances, such as pulmonaria lichen and neckera moss.
Pitcher Plant, Sarracenia purpurea
A snag in Anne’s forest, near Thoreau II
I should have trusted Anne’s word, because her forest ticked every old-growth box I could imagine. It’s no wonder she was so deeply attached to this place! I wandered the parcel, marveling at carnivorous pitcher plants near the shoreline, pulmonaria climbing the trunk of a grand sugar maple, and countless other incredible old growth vignettes .
Hemlock
Pulmonaria lichen (also called Lungwort) growing on a Sugar Maple
Anne built a second cabin near the back of her parcel, which she called Thoreau II. I hoped to find either the cabin itself or its footprint. Without the forest, I could have walked from Anne’s main cabin to Thoreau II quite quickly, but I stopped so many times along the way that the journey took almost an hour. Initially, I felt disappointed to find her cabin reduced to pieces, but as an ecologist and environmental advocate, Anne likely embraced the principle of “leave no trace.” Knowing this brought me some peace. In a decade or so, the logs will decay into moss-covered detritus—subtler to the eye—and eventually, there will be little to no trace of her presence here at all.
Remains of Thoreau II
On my way back to the kayak, I chose a different route and found myself marveling at a host of new sights and sounds. Near the end of my trek, I noticed a doe chewing about 30 feet ahead of me on the trail—perhaps a deer trail, an Anne trail, or both; who’s to say? In my experience, wild deer usually bolt at the first sign of a human, but this moment felt surreal. I stood perfectly still, yet the doe saw me. I was certain she would leap into the tangled hobblebush on either side of the trail. Instead, she ignored me and continued munching her way closer.
Screenshot of the video, which for some reason I cannot upload (nor can I upload any video here, I guess)
Is she blind? Is she sick? I couldn’t make sense of what I was witnessing. The moment became even more magical as sunlight broke through a gap in the canopy, illuminating her light brown summer coat. I lifted my camera, expecting that my movement would trigger her flight response. But she stayed. The doe stopped about 20 feet away—the closest I’ve ever been to a live deer, aside from encounters from a tree stand. She looked directly at me, then turned and walked slowly to the left.
I stood there, thrilled—thrilled to finally be in this place, thrilled to feel more connected to Anne’s stories, and, in that moment, thrilled to be just another non-threatening presence in the forest. It was a perfect end to my time there.
My paddle down the lake wasn’t entirely uneventful, either! As the parking lot came into view, I spotted a family of loons to my right. Since the storm had passed, I sat back and watched them mosey along the shoreline. Lucky for me, a slight breeze gently pushed me in their direction. Much like the doe, the loons didn’t seem phased by my presence. A loon duet capped off one of my very favorite days of the summer—and, all told, one of my favorite Adirondack adventures. I plan to return again, probably on skis—a true taste of Anne’s commute!
