It would be easy to misunderstand Lake Hartwell. The park is the personification of the fisherman. To those unacquainted with the nature of the pass time, fishermen may appear harsh and stoic. The long far off gaze and the oh so quiet still silence feels so heavy that to disturb it with a wave, shouted greeting or smile seems intrusively, rudely and unforgivably sinful. Lake Hartwell can cast the same foreboding shadow.
Lake Hartwell is a different kind of park designed primarily for a very specific visitor. Her shores were meant to be fished upon. Boats were meant to launch here. One walks the shore of Lake Hartwell knowing there must be a million secret inlets of hidden fish caches- sweet spots which always yield the Big One to those masterful in the art of fishing.
It would be easy to misunderstand Lake Hartwell. But if you can quiet yourself and study her, you will find she is not unapproachable. She, like the fishers who visit her, has a quiet smile. She shows her true disposition along a surprising nature trail just across from the visitor center. You set your boot on the trail head and are ushered into Hartwell's other self. She surrounds you with forest and guides you up and down hills that rotate severity and steepness. The quiet of the lake is replaced by the stillness of the wood- different entirely but eerily similar too.
We hiked her trail. We saw her amused smile as she revealed herself. We gave Lake Hartwell her due and realized the sweet temperament behind the outward gruff persona of the quiet fisherman. We even tried to fish her shores. Quiet, thoughtful Thoreau was the only lucky conqueror. Lake Hartwell had found favor in the old soul of the young fisherman and had granted success. With that success granted, we felt Lake Hartwell had given us a gentle approving smile. We took our leave and left her to her long gaze across the water.
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