One: North Carolina.

At the end of a lushly over-grown trail through a heavily-treed forest at the end of a dirt road at the end of a gravelled lane, through a gate marked “NO TRESPASSING” with 20yr old rusted chains wound round and round, at the end of a pot-holed country road at the end of a rural highway at the end of a forlorn interstate, is a lake. This lake is somewhere in North Carolina, but most of the people who live in North Carolina would not be able to confirm its existence. If they were, by some magical stroke of luck, to find themselves at the end of the trail at the end of the gravelled lane at the end of the pot-holed country road at the end of the rural highway at the end of the forlorn interstate, facing the lake, they certainly would not be able to detect the hundreds of little hermitages, camofloged within the surrounding forest. What they would not know that they were looking at, is the site of the Annual Hermits’ Convention.

As I arrived, one dusky June...er...dusk, I also did not see anything of a Convention. What I saw, upon my arrival, was simply: a lake. A beautiful lake, of a somewhat Alpine aspect, with sloping, forrested banks and a tree-fringed island in the center. As the last of the light drained from the sky, the only noise that fell upon my ears was the sweet chirping of crickets, the occasional amphibious hiccup, the soft hum of the evening air, settling into the trees. Of course, I was not alone: aside from the Hermits, who I knew were near, I also enjoyed the company of Willoughby, my dog. (Please don’t stop to ask me what kind of dog Willoughby is; he takes offence. He is of diverse ethnic background and rightly claims that the canine heritage is shared by all dogs alike, as the human heritage is claimed by all humans alike, so his kind is of little or no importance, except that it has provided him with all four legs and an extremely pettable person.) We took our time, savoring the favorable cooling off of North Carolina, and referred back to our directions--a task that was becoming increasingly difficult in the dimming forest:

Eighteen paces forward. At the shrub with 12 orange blooms, turn 60*NE and go 32 more paces until you run into an oak tree.

One, two, three, four...Willoughby loafed along behind me, wiggling his nose at every new waft of forest air...seventeen, eighteen. Aha! Twelve orange blossoms!

Thirty-two paces later, and fifty-three paces after that, I crossed down over the last of flagging slopes that brought me nearly to the edge of the lake, where I could see upon its now-black surface a myriad of watery, white stars reflected. There was nothing but a few wiry trees now to my right, left, and behind me; I could see nothing else. I had but five paces to go.

I consulted my directions: Due South, they said.

My compass indicated that “Due South” was just behind my right shoulder, so I looked--somewhat confusedly--at the trees in the specified direction. Perhaps I had foibled the directions earlier on! Perhaps I had gone NE and a half, when I ought to have gone NE, or turned at the wrong mushroom patch!

Pace one (there’s nothing there! I’m sure of it).
Pace two: “Willoughby, we may be camping tonight”
Pace three, pace four...pace five.

I was standing two feet from a double-helix tree-trunk. Nothing more. Until--clever Hermits!--my eyes adjusted and I realized there is a door handle! Suddenly, everything was clear. Looking up into the underbelly of the tree’s branches, I realized that what looked like a labyrinth of healthy branches, was really a very clever camofloge on the bottom of my tree-top cottage.

The trunk-door opened without a squeak. Willoughby and I climbed up the narrow passage with little difficulty and arrived in our comfortable accomodation: the room was of a funny shape, conforming to the natural shape of the tree, but was of a comfortable size with half-walls encompasing it and a door opening onto a small veranda over-looking the lake. It was furnished with a small, but comfortable bed, a “kitchen,” consisting of a small wash basin, counter-top (atop which was thoughtfully laid a basket of fruit, crackers, and dog-treats), and a writing desk.

Setting down what few things I had brought with me, I noticed a small, white card with my name on it. It read:


Dear Ms. Lima Bean (obviously, not my “real” name, whatever that means)

The pleasure of your presence is requested, by the prestigious
Hermits’ Convention Welcoming Commitee, at the Annual Hermits’
Convention Reception Dinner, to be held this very evening, at
two loud owl hoots past Mid Night, at H.H.

(ie: Hermits’ Headquaters) (ie: the island in the center of the lake)

A dinghy will be put at your disposal; we do not recommend
that you swim.

Best Regards,
The HCWC,
huminahuminahuminah.

(Oh, I’ll get around to explaining THAT soon enough.)

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