When Walden Pond won't let you in
Boston's other swimming holes, flower of the week, and more
Upper Mystic Lake, Medford, Mass.
I don’t want to admit how many times we’ve driven to Walden Pond and had to turn back because the parking lot was full. While the Boston metro area is dotted with kettle ponds formed by retreating glaciers, not many are open for swimming without fussy rules and ropes, and those that are often have fierce parking competition. This poses no problem for the determined wild swimmer, who just jumps in any given pond as soon as the Law is nowhere to be seen. But for a terminal rule follower like myself, the challenge remains.
That’s why we were excited to find a parking spot on only the second go-around at Mystic Lakes, north of Boston and not far from the old Gearin haunts in Arlington. There’s an upper and a lower Mystic Lake, drained by the Mystic River of Boston movie fame.
I knew Mystic Lakes would be different when we pulled up far from the official sandy beach and people climbed up the steep bank, dripping wet, from a random point along the shore. Mystic Lakes are like the anarchic cousins of Concord’s Walden Pond. Walden is clear, lined with beautiful granite stones, and surrounded by forest and wetland; Mystic Lakes are murky, full of aquatic plants, and Upper Mystic is a tad polluted with arsenic. Parking at Walden is tightly regulated with a State Police presence, and there’s a strict carry-out policy for trash. At Mystic Lakes, people park more or less legally and scramble down the tree-lined bank, camping out wherever there’s enough dry ground and gravel to spread a blanket. It’s accidentally the perfect set-up for social distancing: each group has a tiny beach to themselves.
There were several illicit dogs splashing around. The group to our right played pop music and drank beer, and the group to our left lit up smokes. There were plenty of serious swimmers, though. At our small dirt-beach, a woman in a bike appeared and asked if she could jump in next to us. It turned out she meant this literally: she dropped her things and vanished in the shallows, reappearing some minutes later a great way off in open water. Presumably after touching the opposite bank she swam back and then took off on the bike again. While we didn’t do anything that athletic, it was the most actual swimming we’ve done all year.
Maybe Mystic Lakes could do with a little less litter (and I guess arsenic), but it encouraged me to see Walden’s relative primness balanced by something a little more feral and chaotic. I guess I’m glad the region has both places. It makes a difference that we actually stand a chance at accessing one rather than the other, though. (For more on how Walden is changing, too, check out this great story by Cara Giaimo.)
Flower of the week: Common yarrow
Common yarrow (Achillea millefolium) is one of those species found over much of the Northern Hemisphere and beyond, but in this case it’s widespread less because of human intervention but its own successful dispersal and hardiness. It features in herbal medicine traditions as a pain reliever across the globe, from South Asia to many Native American cultures. I’ve seen it pop up in disturbed soils all over in my travels, including here on along an inlet of Quincy Bay.
I love the intricate leaves. The flowers can sometimes be pinkish.
Not to be confused with another wildflower with small white florets and many-pointed leaves: wild carrot/Queen Anne’s Lace/bird’s nest/Daucus carota, a story for another time.
Bird questions? Send them this way: possum.notes.substack [at] gmail dot com
Good grief, remember how I said it was milkweed season just last week? Plenty of milkweeds are already going to fruit—like sand in the hourglass, etc.
Don’t worry—look around for the next few weeks and you’ll still find milkweed in bloom here and there. And then we’ll get into sunflower and goldenrod season—hoo boy.
While we’re on flowers—check out #BlackBotanistsWeek on Twitter and Instagram in case you missed it.
Never thought of it that way before
Elizabeth-Jane Burnett: “The air in these Sheldon fields at this height is pure, like life downed neat, in straight shots. All around, dark green grows and looms and holds and breathes, a living border.” (from The Grassling)
When you feel like you’ve read every possible way to describe fresh air, you never know what approach might break through your complacence. Burnett’s unlikely “shots” metaphor got me thinking of how the air feels in the country on a day that’s going to be hot but isn’t yet. There’s a thickness and faint floral scent that makes you want to drink in as much as you can before the sun climbs higher and thins it out.
If you want to help out
I’m part of a group called Quincy Neighbors Mutual Aid. We’re doing neighbor-to-neighbor support for food and other essentials. The funds are running a bit low if you’re able to help us build it back up: FundRazr site here.
Possum Notes is a weekly newsletter about wildlife and landscapes around where I live. It’s produced on occupied Massachusett and Wampanoag land.