Just off Route 2, 18 miles west of Boston, Walden Pond’s public beach, walking trails and reproduction of Thoreau’s cabin and cairn teem with tourists in the summer. But when the calendar — and the weather — turns in September and October, the 462-acre state park is nearly deserted. Early in the morning the half-mile expanse of Henry David Thoreau’s favorite watering hole is a great spot for open-water swimming, and open-minded thinking.
Thoreau was known for his thrift, and I’ve followed his example by having a raw-food energy bar for breakfast and borrowing a state parking pass from my hometown library, saving myself $5. Crossing Walden Street with my gear, I’m serenaded by twittering birds and a last, insomniac cricket. The sun is rising above the wall of trees surrounding the pond, and at the far end of the beach, beyond the shuttered pavilion and empty lifeguard stand, the first blush of autumn has appeared on the oaks and maples. A pair of flip-flops and two or three mesh bags are lined up on the low stone wall bordering the strand; I can make out the heads of several swimmers churning their way toward the far bank. There’s no one else in sight.
Stripping down to trunks, I tug on a sleeveless wetsuit, strap on goggles and zero-out the timer on my watch. Spires of mist rise from the pond, which is flat and black and still. Wading into the pebbly shallows I throw water onto my neck, make the sign of the Cross and dive in. The water is significantly colder than the air, and the gasp reflex sends a spasm down my neck and through my torso. Then I set off.
