Adirondack Reflections: On Life and Living in the Mountains and the Valleys

By The History Press

The Adirondacks have been written about since they were first spied by Europeans more than five hundred years ago. Yet for most of the intervening centuries, few of those writers lived in the region of which they wrote--they were not part of the landscape. That has changed in recent years as writers have moved to the Adirondacks and formed a literary community. Perhaps inspired by these writers, longtime residents have discovered that they, too, could be part of such a community. From scratching out a living in the harsh landscape to the wonders of a moonlit cross-country ski, these writers celebrate life in the Adirondacks. In this remarkable collection of essays, the experiences of Adirondack natives are interwoven with the land in a part of America that is both demanding and rewarding.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The History Press
• Release date: May 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781625845702

Book preview

2013

INTRODUCTION

There was a time when this volume and its twin, North Country Reflections, were to be one book, with the title Being: North. We both felt those two words captured the fact that people live and work, dream and play, suffer and endure—in other words, exist—up here and captured the essence of where here is. But projects grow and evolve when they acquire momentum, and this one expanded in both scope and name.

For a great many years, those who wrote about the region that is the focus of these books were few in number, and they mostly lived elsewhere, only visiting or passing through before retreating to the relative comforts of more urban (and urbane) environments when the weather turned cold and the income grew slim. But beginning with the last quarter of the twentieth century, the region has seen an outpouring of place-based writing by both old hands and newcomers, most of whom have chosen to take up residence, preferring the subtle and often hidden advantages of living in the mountains and rural expanses to the heavily trumpeted disadvantages. It is those writers, some of whom have never been published before, to whom we wished to offer a platform with these books. Aside from the fact that we want you to discover them, we also want them to discover each other.

Many people helped bring these books into being. Foremost among them, of course, are the more than three dozen contributors of written and artistic works. We thank them for sharing their creative talents, for giving of their energy and, above all, for their patience. Special accolades go to Tara Freeman, staff photographer at St. Lawrence University, for her priceless technical assistance with the images.

Whether you label it the North Country or the Adirondacks or some combination of the two, the misshapen chunk of New York State that protrudes northward from Interstate 90, beyond the northernmost mainline of American east–west commerce, is a special place in its own special ways. We hope these two books help you come to understand, appreciate and wonder about it a little more.

NEAL BURDICK

MAURICE KENNY

Mud Season, 2013

Part I

The Land

THE PLEASURES OF LOWLAND HIKING

By Rich Frost

It’s a bit unclear in my memory which of us was more devastated when Furry couldn’t finish the climb up Debar Mountain.

Furry, our fourteen-year-old black Lab, had been our companion on so many hikes that it never occurred to me that a day would come when she couldn’t climb anymore. She’d been with us atop Pok-o-Moonshine and Gilligan, Baxter and Goodnow, Cascade and Big Slide. At times when my wife and I began dragging, Furry could always provide the extra encouragement necessary to reach the top.

Naturally, I considered the Debar experience just an aberration. So Furry came along on our next outing to Hurricane. Again, she faltered before achieving her goal. When we left to climb Hopkins a couple weeks later, we decided to leave her home.

Her look of disappointment—could it be one of betrayal?—burned itself into my consciousness. I knew I couldn’t bear looking at that face every time I left on a hike.

And that’s when we learned how much more there is to Adirondack hiking than bagging peaks.

We took out the guidebooks and began the search for more modest trails. After all, there are valleys in between all those mountains. There are relentlessly coursing rivers. Courtesy of the last ice age, there’s no shortage of remote ponds and lakes. Courtesy of early settlers, there’s a host of abandoned roads.

Consequently we found enjoyment in reaching the Hudson River gorge at the end of the Blue Ledges trail. An afternoon trekking Old Ironville Road reminded us of the way people had to get from place to place in an earlier era.

The Moriah ponds and the Hammond Pond Wild Forest became especially valuable resources. Short trails brought us to Crowfoot Pond and Berrymill Flow. Twice when Furry seemed somewhat more energetic, we continued on from Berrymill to Moose Mountain Pond.

The Boreas River Trail, however, was the one that cemented our newly gained appreciation of what I’ll call the lowland Adirondacks. Like Norman MacLean, who wrote A River Runs Through It, I’m a bit haunted by waters. It’s still a source of amazement and wonder how the flow of a river constantly renews itself as it courses to its outlet. Springtime thaws are easily understood as sources of water; the springs that keep streams full are more elusive.

In reading of the Boreas, we learned how it served as one of the public highways open to all comers during the heyday of the logging industry. Walking along, we tried to imagine the sight of this waterway choked with logs.

About a mile into our hike, I spotted an iron ring bolted to a large rock. My imagination took me back to river-driving days. I conjured up images of men in wool shirts and calked shoes maneuvering atop rolling logs branded with company names. I saw them breaking up jams with pike poles. I had a hazy vision of some falling into the water and drowning.

Our change in focus allowed Furry to hike another two years. Her last outing was a mere month or so before she died at age sixteen.

Fast-forward a few years. Ripken is now the reigning canine monarch around our homestead. He’s just twelve, but a spinal cord injury forced a premature end to his North Country climbing days. This time we have no reason to watch his disappointment at being left behind for an ascent of, say, Wright Peak or Phelps. Rather we ourselves savor the chance to go back to a regimen of less steep hiking.

We’ve gone back to Boreas River, where that iron ring is harder to find because of the enveloping foliage, but it’s still there. Ripken loves the chance to wade near Rocky Falls, along the Indian Pass Trail. Taking our time, we’ve enjoyed a satisfying fall excursion down the broad wagon path to Camp Santanoni.

One fall morning I had an urge to find an abandoned graphite mine in the Putnam Pond area. My wife was skeptical, but Ripken left no doubt he was game. We’d never hiked in this area before, but topographic maps indicated there would be no prolonged steep stretches.

Keeping our eyes open to natural oddities, we were rewarded with a glimpse of a circumferential burl around one tree, the largest burl I’ve ever seen. Ripken, on the other hand, kept alert to the presence of water. He was well rewarded on this particular trip, having the chance to frolic in Putnam, North, Heart and Rock Ponds. His hips may have become problematic, but that had no impact on his ability to swim.

By Rock Pond, seemingly in the midst of nowhere, we found our destination. A mine shaft cut into the hillside leaked out a trickle of brown water. Stone wall remnants testified to what must have once been a multistory building. Nearby rested a metal boiler, the circumference of which matched our heights.

Certainly there must have been a road to this spot at one time, but we couldn’t detect any evidence. Had we searched more diligently, would we have discovered foundations of boardinghouses? Or did men (I doubt there were women) come to the mine daily from nearby settlements? One of these days, I’ll scrutinize old maps and try to determine who owned this company and how they got their product to market.

Completely uninterested in these historical ruminations, Ripken had begun swimming laps in Rock Pond. If he rued the loss of opportunity to climb more high peaks, he certainly didn’t let on.

Is there any lesson in all this?

Well, our dogs have forced on us a deeper and broader appreciation of the Adirondacks. What we’ve found on our lowland hikes sends us to old maps and countless history books to learn more about the human forces that have interacted with the forests, mountains and waterways. Such activity has also enticed us to learn more geology, with special attention to how ice once carved this landscape.

Furry and Ripken have also shown us that one need never lose that verve for life. They taught us also the necessity for—and the satisfactions of—adaptation. Inability to scale high peaks didn’t consign them to an indoor life; rather, it opened a marvelous new arena for exploration.

I’m about eight dog years old myself now. When my days of climbing end, I won’t be languishing in defeat. Instead I’ll be welcoming an opportunity to add to my Adirondack repertoire.

Sure, I’ll miss the dramatic views should the time come when I can’t reach a mountain top lookout. (In fairness, I keep Belfry Mountain in reserve, its fire tower accessible by a mere half-mile walk up the fire observer’s road.) And I’ll miss that quest to become an Adirondack 46er—one who has climbed all forty-six peaks thought at one time to be over four thousand feet in altitude—though my progress along those lines has been slow anyway. That doesn’t mean, however, that I’ll be missing scenes of remarkable beauty or cheating myself of memorable destinations.

People from afar know this region as the Adirondack Mountains. Courtesy of our canine companions, we know that’s just the beginning.

WE CAME, WE STAYED: BUILDING AN ADIRONDACK LIFE

By Edward Kanze

When killing frosts descended on our tomato plants during our first Adirondack July, we knew we were in for a challenge. And the following winter, when eighteen feet of snow fell on our eighteen and a half acres and I had to shovel the roofs of the house and shed weekly to stave off collapse, the dimensions of the