This time at Cold River—the last time—his touch was light as pollen, no snapped twigs or bootprints on the familiar trail. It was the place Gordon returned to no matter where he was, Blue Mountain Lake or Tahawus, a tiny clearing with a cabin no bigger than a queen-size bed, notched logs standing teepee style, another shed with the necessaries of Noah John’s life. The hermit was a contrary solitary, though, a gregarious recluse who loved the campers who dropped in.
There’s a photo of Rondeau with Gordon’s wife seated in front of a shack labeled “Beauty Parlor.” Perched on a stump, she’s smiling, the woodsman plucking her eyebrows with a pair of clamshells from the lake. At least that’s how the photo is remembered; the album with these once-vivid…