tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82520105495216562072024-03-14T06:08:33.248-04:00Nooks and ValesIt is not on mountaintops that the charm of life lies, for we are seldom there. It is in nooks and vales, in odd corners, that life is spent and finds its settings. --Wallace Nutting, photographerVirginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.comBlogger118125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-45723745451264777892022-10-23T10:10:00.000-04:002022-10-23T10:10:40.166-04:00Watkins Glen Getaway<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZkD7BiH0WYzAQjvdrLO3sESlXQpep662RaPFujUqkSdkUzKZ0ZSTatgrPZ719RTGMUpRflQSl8jtrr10aAlJX2tP34UqBHhXEcTJUnqwB2TjRlsOIwrbOP5bXksEPctEEO0dtogKGlpYQBfYZeUSt_IZiOkXCw7SnIBJxDua1M1dY3jqyqwXEJwhU/s1152/ad%20Virginia%20at%20our%20cottage.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZkD7BiH0WYzAQjvdrLO3sESlXQpep662RaPFujUqkSdkUzKZ0ZSTatgrPZ719RTGMUpRflQSl8jtrr10aAlJX2tP34UqBHhXEcTJUnqwB2TjRlsOIwrbOP5bXksEPctEEO0dtogKGlpYQBfYZeUSt_IZiOkXCw7SnIBJxDua1M1dY3jqyqwXEJwhU/s320/ad%20Virginia%20at%20our%20cottage.jpg" width="267" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Virginia at our Catharine Cottage)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Ever since the slogan "Ithaca is Gorges," was a popular bumper sticker, I
had wanted to explore the Finger Lakes region of New York State. There are lots of gorges in the Finger Lakes, and Ithaca has its
share, but Watkins Glen, billed as one of the most stunning places in
the State of New York and one of the most popular
state parks in the United States, sounded intriguing.<br /></p><p>When my friend, Karen, and I discovered that we both had been wishing to visit the area, while our husbands were fairly disinterested, we teamed up in March and made lodging reservations for mid-September. <br /></p><p> </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9iyKxmisbl10SjeVEXAR-82RAd1G-x8-qj5mPlhn8EdaGl_km4-BJ7WUVOsfhxirAU8rUoffsXs6vJ4by7-bvwe2TIlU-jozHmHFYEEiW3Yk6QYq_bZzXB_gyC-UayPHsV-ADxP154ejsgDHF-ehKdjUxvz8axcMjHItRNNQuOkslLsomr0dng-Ac/s1280/ac%20Catharine%20Creek%20outside%20our%20cottage%20in%20Montour%20Falls.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9iyKxmisbl10SjeVEXAR-82RAd1G-x8-qj5mPlhn8EdaGl_km4-BJ7WUVOsfhxirAU8rUoffsXs6vJ4by7-bvwe2TIlU-jozHmHFYEEiW3Yk6QYq_bZzXB_gyC-UayPHsV-ADxP154ejsgDHF-ehKdjUxvz8axcMjHItRNNQuOkslLsomr0dng-Ac/s320/ac%20Catharine%20Creek%20outside%20our%20cottage%20in%20Montour%20Falls.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Catharine Creek in front of our cottage)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p> Camping is Karen's and my usual MO for overnights but we decided to pamper ourselves with "real" accommodations this time. Looking online, I found Catharine's Cottages just south of Watkins Glen on Catherine Creek in Montour Falls. </p><p>At the same time, Karen discovered that the cottages were next to the Catharine Valley Rail Trail, a perfect 13-mile bike ride for us. And so we took off with our bikes and hiking boots, leaving the tent and husbands behind. <br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Immediately upon arrival in the late afternoon, we checked into our cottage and, with rain in the forecast, had a quick snack, hopped on our bikes and headed for the Catharine Valley Rail Trail and into the village of Montour Falls. <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik5yNG5akYQprj9ZMq6ThMNnKL7cjbOnzyGy0azSRomv3JawiLnfu8f_oY3er5HiBmjzUq2d9gI58n-HS-SpsspL04KxmAytOIxByn9JJg8UEmPyRc2wf_v-q7dmLWPOPEw6QHZd0NNw2gFeCeXXcL5hLyDIJppgZt0JZAlBXFAHZ4VRvHkR1TTyiM/s5472/af%20Karen%20on%20Catharine%20Valley%20rail%20trail,%20Montour%20Falls.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik5yNG5akYQprj9ZMq6ThMNnKL7cjbOnzyGy0azSRomv3JawiLnfu8f_oY3er5HiBmjzUq2d9gI58n-HS-SpsspL04KxmAytOIxByn9JJg8UEmPyRc2wf_v-q7dmLWPOPEw6QHZd0NNw2gFeCeXXcL5hLyDIJppgZt0JZAlBXFAHZ4VRvHkR1TTyiM/s320/af%20Karen%20on%20Catharine%20Valley%20rail%20trail,%20Montour%20Falls.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Karen on the Catharine Valley Rail Trail)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The crushed stone trail was picturesque between lush green forest. When it opened onto the streets of Montour Falls, we were unsure which direction to choose to see the two waterfalls we had read as being within the village itself. A policeman, noticing our dilemma, pointed to our left for one and to the right towards the second on the edge of town. He also suggested perusing the historic section of town.<br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji_u9ji-KmeQqSUUFH2Ja5BsamD1s_YOcmWDr3ZSSRrvZKaDB-iWRfVlPWfwPQkJK6OvIbUH5J9VkGxKzUbdVn69Bv4X1yAGog5ObvI6AAsOzYxquLaQsmsuBeKSn9pzuScCVo2t-7SdBW7dLEu2WN4DJPJRH42_T_mRlWHl3T8ZfkebdvN9MWSUl3/s5107/aga%20Shequaga%20Falls,%20Montour%20Falls.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5107" data-original-width="3405" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji_u9ji-KmeQqSUUFH2Ja5BsamD1s_YOcmWDr3ZSSRrvZKaDB-iWRfVlPWfwPQkJK6OvIbUH5J9VkGxKzUbdVn69Bv4X1yAGog5ObvI6AAsOzYxquLaQsmsuBeKSn9pzuScCVo2t-7SdBW7dLEu2WN4DJPJRH42_T_mRlWHl3T8ZfkebdvN9MWSUl3/s320/aga%20Shequaga%20Falls,%20Montour%20Falls.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Shequaga Falls in the village of Montour Falls)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Shequaga Falls was literally around the corner. A sidewalk between two historic houses led to a small park with a direct view of the falls. While the waterfall was beautiful, I wondered about the wisdom of building so close to this much powerful water. Yet, these houses had been here for nearly 200 years.<br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We were attracted to an 1840 house with its meticulously maintained property, multiple
additions tucked beneath old trees, and a stone's throw from the falls. <br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bNzglt2zV0htKHeC-OqwVxmiGGlEhmCD3QltUAp5AMUqLE-9lfOCdyA-6a_yc12Q0SbEhJpC9fM6UwiKAFWr4b98ORK5jOeWFNa7Dj1u7EzT-KquzMCSux5DQtAXP55WnTrDdTcNidvW_yPyzUuYt5z0V_zABaFEG_3J0-N_oja77WHv7REs3tW6/s5472/agc%20historic%20district%20Montour%20Falls.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bNzglt2zV0htKHeC-OqwVxmiGGlEhmCD3QltUAp5AMUqLE-9lfOCdyA-6a_yc12Q0SbEhJpC9fM6UwiKAFWr4b98ORK5jOeWFNa7Dj1u7EzT-KquzMCSux5DQtAXP55WnTrDdTcNidvW_yPyzUuYt5z0V_zABaFEG_3J0-N_oja77WHv7REs3tW6/s320/agc%20historic%20district%20Montour%20Falls.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(charming 1840 house)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2U0Zbm0X9fNPm7NCu27oPDukK2IZ3plZVn5jzjeO6gYWJlpYTw34gkXtw30Wij94hC3PG9U_qCmuaXOpz5GB0hMsHaPLHUase5MwmGv9yJ-Gg7-hIHdZJhv6gSROJcWBXElI8FhqiU_3SheezzXAixzcwvws0kOWAy7aGOPe7e6xiXISfWxxQ98SA/s5472/agb%201830%20house%20in%20front%20of%20Shequaga%20Falls.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2U0Zbm0X9fNPm7NCu27oPDukK2IZ3plZVn5jzjeO6gYWJlpYTw34gkXtw30Wij94hC3PG9U_qCmuaXOpz5GB0hMsHaPLHUase5MwmGv9yJ-Gg7-hIHdZJhv6gSROJcWBXElI8FhqiU_3SheezzXAixzcwvws0kOWAy7aGOPe7e6xiXISfWxxQ98SA/s320/agb%201830%20house%20in%20front%20of%20Shequaga%20Falls.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(note the waterfall just behind the house and a few trees)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We continued on to Aunt Sarah's Falls a mile farther north and on a busier road. This waterfall was less dramatic and in a less picturesque location. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Back on the bike trail, we hoped to ride the few remaining miles to the town of Watkins Glen, but thunder not far away and a darkening cloud cover forced us to turn around. We returned through the historic neighborhood but didn't linger as more thunder rumbled. Cruising into our cottage's driveway and lifting our bikes onto the protective porch, we were glad to be indoors just as rain arrived in earnest.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHAxBX_9Gosj-kfDcWqOoUOyaWZuXZGZFlx45qv3V1otAQzvZkXJkGdAKykGnPWwIKFWs5rGXr6ghaPCiHIwn4HNiXdd9DrSITMHnvH1WN5gF2ckhoQLNT5woaFcow7vyjFmEyMLulqx54yZxnF-FdAUVeNVKz_mqqp7O0aHYDRbBP9sCsrwPAxIzX/s5472/as.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5472" data-original-width="3648" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHAxBX_9Gosj-kfDcWqOoUOyaWZuXZGZFlx45qv3V1otAQzvZkXJkGdAKykGnPWwIKFWs5rGXr6ghaPCiHIwn4HNiXdd9DrSITMHnvH1WN5gF2ckhoQLNT5woaFcow7vyjFmEyMLulqx54yZxnF-FdAUVeNVKz_mqqp7O0aHYDRbBP9sCsrwPAxIzX/s320/as.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(fascinating rock carved by Glen Creek at Watkins Glen State Park)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>It rained all night and continued into the morning. Even as we pulled into Watkins Glen State Park, rain pounded the car's roof. Fortunately, as predicted, it let up shortly after we went through the park's gate.</p><p>Karen and I loved walking the 1.5 mile Gorge Trail with its 19
waterfalls. I was also taken with the serpentine rock formed over
thousands of years by the rushing water. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2A7FMRrzy7LR9AT1EWtTYIs60__p0yzWATxtkOAqz8_hPCwfc47sYuNCYo0uS89IOrg1zQ5jqLcG0NaWoOhh34PpHrMTDde5wj7tiJ7J6QFjddHEXI9oV1tDBRESzhuCt7tlXzbBx99GlQBCGbxkgWmLL5PYIHp6LlqZHzf-hA9CR-oAW31A-5fv/s5472/an.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2A7FMRrzy7LR9AT1EWtTYIs60__p0yzWATxtkOAqz8_hPCwfc47sYuNCYo0uS89IOrg1zQ5jqLcG0NaWoOhh34PpHrMTDde5wj7tiJ7J6QFjddHEXI9oV1tDBRESzhuCt7tlXzbBx99GlQBCGbxkgWmLL5PYIHp6LlqZHzf-hA9CR-oAW31A-5fv/s320/an.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Virginia behind the waterfall)<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>In addition, man-made rock work was spectacular. The Civilian Conservation Corps, a back-to-work program as part of Roosevelt's New Deal, constructed trails and stone work in over 800 parks in its 9-year existence. Although very familiar with the CCC's work at home and elsewhere, we wondered how men survived the dangerous trail and bridge construction next to or above tumultuous waterfalls and the roiling river. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23Yhj7S8-eyNFIx8lCZtpycx-gtNK4kbnerwOuBVZrIJ8LxlM49D60H0zX7_UhHxHY9eFXjBS2aHd2-jBRyImU_wszNXZ_N6gAnWsqhPNefza5TRVdo9EAnuo_RqfZeSplzmZTuMzqODnWUPdAHFMts9rU_nP2cYAne9If2RxygitbXCwBI5G6EXD/s5472/ap%20Rainbow%20Falls.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5472" data-original-width="3648" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23Yhj7S8-eyNFIx8lCZtpycx-gtNK4kbnerwOuBVZrIJ8LxlM49D60H0zX7_UhHxHY9eFXjBS2aHd2-jBRyImU_wszNXZ_N6gAnWsqhPNefza5TRVdo9EAnuo_RqfZeSplzmZTuMzqODnWUPdAHFMts9rU_nP2cYAne9If2RxygitbXCwBI5G6EXD/s320/ap%20Rainbow%20Falls.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Rainbow Falls)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p> </p><p>Rainbow Falls has it all: a delicate waterfall that sprinkles the tourist who walks beneath; the fast billowing Glen Creek; a flight of stone steps that rise to a stone bridge; and the water-carved limestone and shale sedimentary rock formed over 10,000 years. Rainbow Falls' beauty has made it the most photographed waterfall in the park.</p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5uVSUTtVkOr7-gn0hDYCoQR9TIduT-TKRyVk2Dz-IZAsOcgiiU3ztH9jGqrEym2CDR5YhBdeQa10sZ78OjRg0e74Xt_dZX4X6E7uiTBNDriBPmJlS8SxsTtEuBz7xDI0utM6YFNRO1EZA1n8jR-4JvGc4JmLOp8abLtYz_UCwY68H_ftwowYBvtEZ/s5472/ao.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5472" data-original-width="3648" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5uVSUTtVkOr7-gn0hDYCoQR9TIduT-TKRyVk2Dz-IZAsOcgiiU3ztH9jGqrEym2CDR5YhBdeQa10sZ78OjRg0e74Xt_dZX4X6E7uiTBNDriBPmJlS8SxsTtEuBz7xDI0utM6YFNRO1EZA1n8jR-4JvGc4JmLOp8abLtYz_UCwY68H_ftwowYBvtEZ/s320/ao.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Central Cascade)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p> </p><p>At 60 feet high, the Central Cascade is the tallest waterfall in the park. Might the bridge builders here have been afraid they might slip and tumble? Every turn in the path held new fascination for us.</p><p>And what about those 832 steps throughout the gorge? As veteran hikers,
Karen and I had no trouble climbing them. We had brought our hiking
poles, since we were new to the park and hadn't known what to expect,
but we did not need them. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibm6aoJCWfG9iKPYQ_nHhnhUD8ADEZtRGiWuhBrTOYhVlQuwWeSwISr5iYV85UA9SuizTaXx0ogQIdc3NsZxoSlsLwI56FYIxUGBmDBtw4NVwAX4RsnWf-1rVhxeX8vsfIdGBUVaJC6F48SezSZ_TWzTIQnVZV3xd657CeDliEGpEaWiJYx3fwzAmZ/s5472/at%20part%20of%20the%20800%20stairs%20on%20the%20Gorge%20Trail.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5472" data-original-width="3648" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibm6aoJCWfG9iKPYQ_nHhnhUD8ADEZtRGiWuhBrTOYhVlQuwWeSwISr5iYV85UA9SuizTaXx0ogQIdc3NsZxoSlsLwI56FYIxUGBmDBtw4NVwAX4RsnWf-1rVhxeX8vsfIdGBUVaJC6F48SezSZ_TWzTIQnVZV3xd657CeDliEGpEaWiJYx3fwzAmZ/s320/at%20part%20of%20the%20800%20stairs%20on%20the%20Gorge%20Trail.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Karen on a grand flight of stairs)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><br /></p><p>We ended our stair climb at Jacob's Ladder, which alone is comprised of 180 steps. At the top, we took the Indian Trail, making a loop return to where we had begun. After watching our steps on rocks and stairs in the gorge, it felt good to stride right along on this pretty trail.</p><p>And just as we made our final ascent to the parking lot, the sun came out in earnest.</p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA9YqsgcOe--979JwOzmd5byjGlENJJMATg_FdCT51lSe4-dneaRotxPwvpyCYmdBEY2sZqaSFOm44x5HnGNEmkDLBYIbizRDbdCdV_5-2RTBgCrUcc2oaZZHFJyneEUIGKTzwYCS99yylU_9iB0Nkh9-lHS_Tp2CaFKvjX-YcaGRcuCEGMujuWaKs/s5472/au%20iconic%20scenic%20at%20dock%20in%20Watkins%20Glen%20village.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5472" data-original-width="3648" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA9YqsgcOe--979JwOzmd5byjGlENJJMATg_FdCT51lSe4-dneaRotxPwvpyCYmdBEY2sZqaSFOm44x5HnGNEmkDLBYIbizRDbdCdV_5-2RTBgCrUcc2oaZZHFJyneEUIGKTzwYCS99yylU_9iB0Nkh9-lHS_Tp2CaFKvjX-YcaGRcuCEGMujuWaKs/s320/au%20iconic%20scenic%20at%20dock%20in%20Watkins%20Glen%20village.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Iconic view at Watkins Glen marina on Seneca Lake)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Once out of the park, it didn't take us long to decide to stop at Captain Bill's and get tickets for a 50-minute boat ride on Seneca Lake. The water sparkled under the sunny blue sky as we boarded the Seneca Legacy. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The lake has a long human history from the Seneca Indigenous Nation to today.
We saw a mix of historic periods from the boat. Earliest was the diagonal line
on these horizontal
cliffs. This Native American path provided an escape route from Seneca Lake in times of
danger as well as access to the lake for fishing and water travel. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimI3SaaDSiBeeAu8aMIasp4I-CP_ocGPK5v2D9gjqEzaIQ6fAIXctvCwJwNEYVzGlWzBxMi489Nf5nR5etZ8Fu1xQo8zkhyf6s5d7VCkItJGiNPhwTMo2Pt4asZwlbnDVdylx8akN_l2StuwUf0V-M9cFygMXMlSIHFe76V6wv78l5JtvXOGiwKVU_/s4920/az%20Native%20American%20path%20angles%20up%20the%20cliff.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4920" data-original-width="3573" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimI3SaaDSiBeeAu8aMIasp4I-CP_ocGPK5v2D9gjqEzaIQ6fAIXctvCwJwNEYVzGlWzBxMi489Nf5nR5etZ8Fu1xQo8zkhyf6s5d7VCkItJGiNPhwTMo2Pt4asZwlbnDVdylx8akN_l2StuwUf0V-M9cFygMXMlSIHFe76V6wv78l5JtvXOGiwKVU_/s320/az%20Native%20American%20path%20angles%20up%20the%20cliff.JPG" width="232" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(a diagonal line on the cliff is a path made by Native Americans)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Later came the steamships from the 1830s to the 1920s, zigzagging back and forth across the water for business, shopping, visiting, and tourism.<br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC6NoNhdLBNMDKjSu05Be9j35z7t3rWQfjWVpk7PF2NR0eHtsHBxMtm0LekUna7veR_7JhnTOvJ39zArweVSzAI_HOnkBu2pcF1jluT4uatscGZqrIZ6aqD66oAwiOGGmNXe6RYI1WKY6vK05aSJU2ujm8e4kgZPhj8Zt6d-scUqhIAFpP-3Nwnirw/s3425/aw%20view%20from%20boat%20ride%20on%20Seneca%20Lake,%20original%20dock%20for%20steamships.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2457" data-original-width="3425" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC6NoNhdLBNMDKjSu05Be9j35z7t3rWQfjWVpk7PF2NR0eHtsHBxMtm0LekUna7veR_7JhnTOvJ39zArweVSzAI_HOnkBu2pcF1jluT4uatscGZqrIZ6aqD66oAwiOGGmNXe6RYI1WKY6vK05aSJU2ujm8e4kgZPhj8Zt6d-scUqhIAFpP-3Nwnirw/s320/aw%20view%20from%20boat%20ride%20on%20Seneca%20Lake,%20original%20dock%20for%20steamships.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(the last remaining steamship dock)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was surprised to see salt mines in two locations on the lake
near the town and was a bit unnerved by the smokestacks at both ends of the
waterfront. I was reminded of the Greenidge Plant on the north end of Seneca Lake. Once an environmentally dirty coal-burning plant, Greenidge now burns fracked gas for cryptocurrency mining sparking new environmental battles.<br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We also saw plenty of beauty. Hector Falls tumbles directly into the lake and iconic farmland dots the shoreline. We had a perfect afternoon to enjoy being on the water.<br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0r4VuUyjq5et7jh-_SkZtcuWiWZ8GgzpK35st8jXRcYajD0Ngo1ObYJU6fs1Bi9Ia6UAnHRKu9grOOnBNQX6SK9yVS8NvHlewGPfuvE6EG3RCXp-QiEH250ambpsi9Sxxz9Q-WFva4g1Z3ixxEOFS3HWmeA7dUW7ojupX8aR79yjfyu3NpzD6Go6P/s2783/ba%20farm%20scene%20from%20boat%20ride%20on%20Seneca%20Lake.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2039" data-original-width="2783" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0r4VuUyjq5et7jh-_SkZtcuWiWZ8GgzpK35st8jXRcYajD0Ngo1ObYJU6fs1Bi9Ia6UAnHRKu9grOOnBNQX6SK9yVS8NvHlewGPfuvE6EG3RCXp-QiEH250ambpsi9Sxxz9Q-WFva4g1Z3ixxEOFS3HWmeA7dUW7ojupX8aR79yjfyu3NpzD6Go6P/s320/ba%20farm%20scene%20from%20boat%20ride%20on%20Seneca%20Lake.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Back at our little cottage, our thoughts turned to dinner. With some research and a few phone calls, we chose Horseheads Brewing in Watkins Glen where we had a delicious meal by the marina with views of the lake.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The next day we took the advice of our friend, Trisha, who had recommended a drive through Amish and Mennonite farmland on the west side of Seneca Lake. What a great suggestion!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuwtfNnq8ZkHP8SGDLj7brkyH28GLMrZ0RMsqiLuGbDkoRyGqAXJ2zbf0s2IDnWJUgsabAZlsGJrHP6PzLij55afSPQwvTRXEHdhbNiq1vYgAXt1RoQufe0QE4nMzuKL9rNCXr8Sy41Dzefm-u94d0nukJ5wqdzvlsFur9uaZfK9xxg-jQvwRPmmqQ/s3415/bc.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3415" data-original-width="2670" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuwtfNnq8ZkHP8SGDLj7brkyH28GLMrZ0RMsqiLuGbDkoRyGqAXJ2zbf0s2IDnWJUgsabAZlsGJrHP6PzLij55afSPQwvTRXEHdhbNiq1vYgAXt1RoQufe0QE4nMzuKL9rNCXr8Sy41Dzefm-u94d0nukJ5wqdzvlsFur9uaZfK9xxg-jQvwRPmmqQ/s320/bc.JPG" width="250" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7i7sr1fR5ACMchblU4eWxYprsC7I9DkgEtWTqCqJEl0jpD1IO-ftNSO4ViKezdaaX7K2gBl_xsl6ujbvjwV_QE_4ZlQDRsdz3AGzK6WVj1qA7RTV6-TQwqRYUojcIUsBq6nk7yAjUdKPTDeG0-Zw1l1S-JC9lkiz8X6D7yx-LqWM64qFSYwLBbxS7/s4745/bb%20rural%20view%20on%20the%20way%20to%20Penn%20Yan.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3222" data-original-width="4745" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7i7sr1fR5ACMchblU4eWxYprsC7I9DkgEtWTqCqJEl0jpD1IO-ftNSO4ViKezdaaX7K2gBl_xsl6ujbvjwV_QE_4ZlQDRsdz3AGzK6WVj1qA7RTV6-TQwqRYUojcIUsBq6nk7yAjUdKPTDeG0-Zw1l1S-JC9lkiz8X6D7yx-LqWM64qFSYwLBbxS7/s320/bb%20rural%20view%20on%20the%20way%20to%20Penn%20Yan.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">We toured beautiful countryside, taking short jaunts on back roads to get deeper into the landscape. Occasionally, we saw an Amish buggy or passed a schoolhouse with bicycles parked alongside. <br /></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsjWik3VaUevh75rYYZzgv692yIupdrny8uR5VnlM2IctxAC57kBFX2tlfNznzl9oZCTct6GvgDHG0kGf87bTppNczzuipSIDSnPsZhLadRIQyA4akZVqvOJ2GbQNn2-u4WvRQHi_4LOmGJGhbwkPQVdwsmUuzVgY3E_Hh81XkRpuQ_CmEPZfjt_Rx/s5472/bf.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsjWik3VaUevh75rYYZzgv692yIupdrny8uR5VnlM2IctxAC57kBFX2tlfNznzl9oZCTct6GvgDHG0kGf87bTppNczzuipSIDSnPsZhLadRIQyA4akZVqvOJ2GbQNn2-u4WvRQHi_4LOmGJGhbwkPQVdwsmUuzVgY3E_Hh81XkRpuQ_CmEPZfjt_Rx/w333-h213/bf.JPG" width="333" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We stopped at this lush Mennonite farm stand with its bounty of mum plants. Once inside, the overwhelming aroma of grapes greeted us. This is wine country after all! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj4SkUDEpj2ZT0_62j67E_Tu3Om5rZ_-FbGS-yzfNCcICblxdOFko39SqyP2ZN5gJ456g5pIhr7yOuGrG_p82PGSbcUkKuYjEPjRC1YMEy53tgVbRWtSyok7JSzjCdY126yq-LvbW64USRKWBeCAXbj0EoB4k9Ize4D6-FxKZZsfoJXwKGuNMqD0hb/s4044/bf%20lots%20of%20grapes%20and%20strong%20aroma%20in%20this%20wine-making%20area.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4044" data-original-width="3105" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj4SkUDEpj2ZT0_62j67E_Tu3Om5rZ_-FbGS-yzfNCcICblxdOFko39SqyP2ZN5gJ456g5pIhr7yOuGrG_p82PGSbcUkKuYjEPjRC1YMEy53tgVbRWtSyok7JSzjCdY126yq-LvbW64USRKWBeCAXbj0EoB4k9Ize4D6-FxKZZsfoJXwKGuNMqD0hb/s320/bf%20lots%20of%20grapes%20and%20strong%20aroma%20in%20this%20wine-making%20area.JPG" width="246" /></a></p>Boxes, barrels and shelves overflowed with produce from the early fall harvest. Bins of tomatoes and peaches had us imagining Mennonite or Amish wives canning food for winter in their large kitchens, not to mention sauce simmering for dinner or a fruit pie warm out of the oven.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_AfUf8WAh2lNP2qIC5FwmUeaspngYp70ixyl5vL4xWeL0VmmzJOQ3-i-fVI8nKAOOdUe_hbb061QiSarkAYN-vhpo1vVmmc26AvlKcwHwvpgzJf3qfCrGvtFRZO-23gX8FrgU4WMjLjN9dC5Bu61Cc_--xGI22L40rKq3LaYh1AZlbklObm21BOiF/s4845/be.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3240" data-original-width="4845" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_AfUf8WAh2lNP2qIC5FwmUeaspngYp70ixyl5vL4xWeL0VmmzJOQ3-i-fVI8nKAOOdUe_hbb061QiSarkAYN-vhpo1vVmmc26AvlKcwHwvpgzJf3qfCrGvtFRZO-23gX8FrgU4WMjLjN9dC5Bu61Cc_--xGI22L40rKq3LaYh1AZlbklObm21BOiF/s320/be.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Having brought our bikes along for the drive up the west side of Seneca Lake on the recommendation of a woman at the Watkins Glen Visitor Center, we continued north. She had suggested that we bicycle the Keuka Outlet Trail from Penn Yan to Dresden. This 6-mile path runs between Keuka Lake and Seneca Lake.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5CylEDnduo0aDh_PA68FDkXTFprm273t1sEPt4sYSKVC8x4CF928xwGyG2EGM-rvSnPwJDXRc_VFfvGoJOrl8Rq9nJUzyMRDxFKUzxplaIlu4Z93oiO1LMKCPPKvffm-am0qecn6iyhNw1SFzrA4lbWasBearvBN3d8KFmIXchOkPz66FgInp_Pr2/s5472/bg%20Keuka%20Outlet%20bike%20trail.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5CylEDnduo0aDh_PA68FDkXTFprm273t1sEPt4sYSKVC8x4CF928xwGyG2EGM-rvSnPwJDXRc_VFfvGoJOrl8Rq9nJUzyMRDxFKUzxplaIlu4Z93oiO1LMKCPPKvffm-am0qecn6iyhNw1SFzrA4lbWasBearvBN3d8KFmIXchOkPz66FgInp_Pr2/s320/bg%20Keuka%20Outlet%20bike%20trail.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLp-hDw-RhXQX2B28ga0dnW5H8dtwS-f6GWVkzjMzWTFP3c682sJuCqhTXetXtLqf8cXAABxZEm8Qqqz4lCRtRpggrwUpL8ng8XLVXtAKzJy9AwjKKsS7eFAjlkJNQv8oy-FqWyJaHqeGdnJcTYvfoAn84aLUVHmdkA49ci23noqAe5oHjjJDtZf3_/s5472/bh%20Keuka%20Outlet.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLp-hDw-RhXQX2B28ga0dnW5H8dtwS-f6GWVkzjMzWTFP3c682sJuCqhTXetXtLqf8cXAABxZEm8Qqqz4lCRtRpggrwUpL8ng8XLVXtAKzJy9AwjKKsS7eFAjlkJNQv8oy-FqWyJaHqeGdnJcTYvfoAn84aLUVHmdkA49ci23noqAe5oHjjJDtZf3_/s320/bh%20Keuka%20Outlet.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Although the rail trail began as a beautiful stone dust ride through woodland and
along the "outlet," it quickly deteriorated, at times just a foot-wide dirt
track, other times rubbly. Twice we had to lift our bicycles over large
fallen trees. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Despite the trail's poor condition, we wanted to see its highlights: Seneca Mill Falls and Cascade Mill Falls. As soon as early settlers saw the potential for hydropower available here, industry grew. Ruins of the Seneca Paper Mill offer a glimpse of the past.<br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The trail ended in Dresden where we turned around and headed back to my car in Penn
Yan.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <br /><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9cio_P5p8zCpmwy4V-0cnfafYjEE25kUwkfwhXXXp8Zq4Jez1VybwgZaKeALCQYBtIAGzMWPPKkADmAjhn4XMf8-b4gnPzU8ennb-DEvZQX7T7RrosDtfAvrv8MzgKucpTvEqfdcsXXxZN0TlmAfNnX2M8eS_qsE5Cf-MIK8WDXQScrcL5l75wsuc/s320/bk%20mill%20falls%20on%20Keuka%20Outlet,%20Penn%20Yan.JPG" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">True to character, Karen had researched ice cream locations and found
Penn Yan's Seneca Farms. Seneca Farms' homemade ice cream with their
own hot fudge made a tasty ending to our Finger Lakes adventure.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9cio_P5p8zCpmwy4V-0cnfafYjEE25kUwkfwhXXXp8Zq4Jez1VybwgZaKeALCQYBtIAGzMWPPKkADmAjhn4XMf8-b4gnPzU8ennb-DEvZQX7T7RrosDtfAvrv8MzgKucpTvEqfdcsXXxZN0TlmAfNnX2M8eS_qsE5Cf-MIK8WDXQScrcL5l75wsuc/s5472/bk%20mill%20falls%20on%20Keuka%20Outlet,%20Penn%20Yan.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9cio_P5p8zCpmwy4V-0cnfafYjEE25kUwkfwhXXXp8Zq4Jez1VybwgZaKeALCQYBtIAGzMWPPKkADmAjhn4XMf8-b4gnPzU8ennb-DEvZQX7T7RrosDtfAvrv8MzgKucpTvEqfdcsXXxZN0TlmAfNnX2M8eS_qsE5Cf-MIK8WDXQScrcL5l75wsuc/s5472/bk%20mill%20falls%20on%20Keuka%20Outlet,%20Penn%20Yan.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCkhh5CnLAXmcjt9HcR8puZJvK1UDFboHBzzE1GR5XdDWcLN-hBzFHlnhJrZ_BFP_uUOwDB4zUuqiYpS40P7ssU47RUmhPQ_VD1b3vSz7FdAzstCdguQumkWgJkdk1sEC8q3K7GmtMeDrJlrS8JUVfEc-wWOOhs4-UTCuRLAOBiiPOz_06kUf8mF8f/s4219/bl%20reward%20after%20riding%20Keuka%20outlet%20trail,%209-2022.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3041" data-original-width="4219" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCkhh5CnLAXmcjt9HcR8puZJvK1UDFboHBzzE1GR5XdDWcLN-hBzFHlnhJrZ_BFP_uUOwDB4zUuqiYpS40P7ssU47RUmhPQ_VD1b3vSz7FdAzstCdguQumkWgJkdk1sEC8q3K7GmtMeDrJlrS8JUVfEc-wWOOhs4-UTCuRLAOBiiPOz_06kUf8mF8f/s320/bl%20reward%20after%20riding%20Keuka%20outlet%20trail,%209-2022.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><br /><br /></div></div>Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-78800243099021380702021-08-15T14:29:00.000-04:002021-08-15T14:29:27.572-04:00A Visit to Churchtown Dairy<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o1OLedBQCwc/YQ8xv3NGNWI/AAAAAAAAMaQ/IZeI332k8I0y9zmNt4Wqr0XRBlyKZg4wQCLcBGAsYHQ/s4815/1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4815" data-original-width="3626" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o1OLedBQCwc/YQ8xv3NGNWI/AAAAAAAAMaQ/IZeI332k8I0y9zmNt4Wqr0XRBlyKZg4wQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/1.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Round Barn and Cow Barn behind a plethora of coneflowers)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>I had never heard of the Churchtown Dairy before my sister gave Bill and me a Christmas gift certificate for the shop there. We checked out the website and chose August as a good time to visit the Dairy, when the farm would be lush and productive. According to the website events calendar, tours are only on Saturdays. We definitely wanted to go on a tour. Last week, our calendar and the Dairy's calendar fit together perfectly.</p><p>The drive to Churchtown, just a few miles from the City of Hudson, was just under an hour.
We arrived early at the farm which gave us ample time to wander through
the gardens and to peruse the farm store before the tour began. </p><p></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Oo5WG79g8TQ/YQ8xyYreOzI/AAAAAAAAMac/Dcl8OmlVae0hKxwVD_ObAVA7xAU3Z-cDwCLcBGAsYHQ/s3348/2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2439" data-original-width="3348" height="233" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Oo5WG79g8TQ/YQ8xyYreOzI/AAAAAAAAMac/Dcl8OmlVae0hKxwVD_ObAVA7xAU3Z-cDwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Flowers provide colorful accents throughout the property)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p>In the 1980s, as farmland in Columbia County became a high commodity for development, Peggy Rockefeller (wife of David Rockefeller) purchased more than 3000 acres of farmland as it came on the market, saving many farms in the Hudson Valley. Two-hundred-fifty of those acres became the Churchtown Dairy.</p><p>Peggy and David's daughter, Abby, had a vision for the 250-acre parcel. In 2008, she began sharing her dream for a dairy farm with builder, Rick Andersen, giving him one command, "it has to be beautiful." It took four years to complete the drawings for the project, but by 2014
the buildings and dairy were operational.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j1x66CCjDLo/YQ8xzITonYI/AAAAAAAAMag/tBRYvX3GbrkUk4cF5RWEMZ0bard-t8_jwCLcBGAsYHQ/s3786/3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2551" data-original-width="3786" height="216" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j1x66CCjDLo/YQ8xzITonYI/AAAAAAAAMag/tBRYvX3GbrkUk4cF5RWEMZ0bard-t8_jwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The garden is crowded with many varieties of plants)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>The flower garden that I had admired upon arrival was constructed a little later, in 2017. Tours specific to the garden are on Wednesdays, when the gardener, Jean-David Derreumaux, explains the healing qualities of the plants and aspects of biodynamic gardening. </p><p>Biodynamic gardens are created in harmony and beauty with the land and nature, abiding by such methods as planting and harvesting with the cycles of the moon. This colorful and aromatic garden with its water feature, benches, and a gazebo tucked behind climbing plants, seemed the perfect place to escape from the pressures and stresses of today's world. </p><p>I asked the guide if people request to have their weddings here. She said, "They may, but we don't host weddings." And, I thought, there isn't the financial need to do so.</p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LtcL7sJOkbE/YQ8xzvGnNzI/AAAAAAAAMak/2Z5wmQ7eGWEhAx-1UP7SZANUL2ZclFo8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s4640/4.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3141" data-original-width="4640" height="217" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LtcL7sJOkbE/YQ8xzvGnNzI/AAAAAAAAMak/2Z5wmQ7eGWEhAx-1UP7SZANUL2ZclFo8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/4.JPG" width="320" /></a><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zjyOoxZeNO8/YQ8xzwNqwoI/AAAAAAAAMao/-GvRgIOOHAQh_ZHkbP8nKWIsqqd5qOalQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2108/5.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1394" data-original-width="2108" height="212" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zjyOoxZeNO8/YQ8xzwNqwoI/AAAAAAAAMao/-GvRgIOOHAQh_ZHkbP8nKWIsqqd5qOalQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/5.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Swallowtail butterflies love the garden too.)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><p></p><p></p><p>Thirty primarily Brown Swiss cows graze the Dairy fields, rotating from one field to another daily. Ongoing rotations do not exhaust the soil which then can continually regenerate, a feature of a biodynamic farm model. Churchtown Dairy also raises about 30 grass-fed beef cows in a separate
field. </p><p>Our guide wanted us to understand that, while most cows have their horns removed while young, the cows here do not. Their horns pose no safety concerns for the farmers, since the small number of cows have plenty of space to roam. She also explained how the cows use their horns. Sometimes one will affectionately stroke the head of another with a horn. She described a cow who used her horn to move an object that was in the way. Keeping the cows relaxed and happy are all elements of maintaining a respectful farm family. </p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aql15XGrIiw/YQ8x0PmFhgI/AAAAAAAAMas/o5aklyPvkdIGSrALnBQKc6W1kU08dUYGACLcBGAsYHQ/s3061/6.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2008" data-original-width="3061" height="210" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aql15XGrIiw/YQ8x0PmFhgI/AAAAAAAAMas/o5aklyPvkdIGSrALnBQKc6W1kU08dUYGACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/6.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A farm worker brings the cows in for milking)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>We walked away from the garden toward the Round Shaker-style barn and the cow barn. I was astonished that these buildings, that appear as if easily 100 years old, were only constructed in the last 7 or 8 years. With slate roofs, pristine white paint, and charming dormers and cupolas, how could anyone afford to build such a farm? Our tour guide reminded us that this was not just a farm; this was a Rockefeller Trust Property. The builder had ample funds to "make it beautiful."<br /></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FqDVBQGNNEM/YQ8x0fHnJiI/AAAAAAAAMaw/Owv0UHDJKEcBR_xplix14cf4Qa1P1SAVACLcBGAsYHQ/s3034/7.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2118" data-original-width="3034" height="223" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FqDVBQGNNEM/YQ8x0fHnJiI/AAAAAAAAMaw/Owv0UHDJKEcBR_xplix14cf4Qa1P1SAVACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/7.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(the "ramp" leads into the upper level of the barn)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p>The Round Barn is an object of beauty and practicality. In the winter, when snow covers the grassy fields, the cows come here to eat. As a bank barn, in this case with a man-made hill to the second level, both the upper and the lower floors can be accessed from ground
level. </p><p>Hay baled in the traditional rectangular cuboid shape is loaded into the barn's upper level. When the cows come into the lower level through another entry, the bales are easily dropped to the barn floor, then loosened and spread onto the floor's outer circle where the cows await. </p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KRwuVvYOEF4/YQ8x2hFfmtI/AAAAAAAAMa0/LT49gc9NqjQ22s6uucJIc6hvzuQVbmL9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/8.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KRwuVvYOEF4/YQ8x2hFfmtI/AAAAAAAAMa0/LT49gc9NqjQ22s6uucJIc6hvzuQVbmL9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/8.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(the second level with stored hay bales, and the roof)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p></p><p> Outside of the building, I had admired the pointed design on the roof. When I came inside with the tour group, I was stunned by the magnificent star motif at the roof's pinnacle. Warm natural wood comes together in a design that creates art out of the practical need for a ventilation system in the barn's ceiling. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5mqVSOzonBU/YQ8x24-B36I/AAAAAAAAMa4/M4-PI5PZn48tTx11bA3M2fZ2LoKrcU8UwCLcBGAsYHQ/s3142/9.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3142" data-original-width="3056" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5mqVSOzonBU/YQ8x24-B36I/AAAAAAAAMa4/M4-PI5PZn48tTx11bA3M2fZ2LoKrcU8UwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/9.jpg" width="311" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p>A milking barn, attached to the Round Barn, was reconstructed from an 1850s barn in New Hampshire. In temperate seasons, the cows spend almost all the hours of the day outdoors, coming in only to be milked morning and evening. For these two brief periods, they eat hay and a small amount of grain. When the milking is finished, they go back outdoors where they consume fresh grass in the fields day and night. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nc0AC6q1WwU/YQ8xvRgj7SI/AAAAAAAAMaM/Tt2nspwD2NQRgcY45IGthL1UOdEN1N8sQCLcBGAsYHQ/s4541/10.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3308" data-original-width="4541" height="233" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nc0AC6q1WwU/YQ8xvRgj7SI/AAAAAAAAMaM/Tt2nspwD2NQRgcY45IGthL1UOdEN1N8sQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/10.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Most of the cows here are Brown Swiss)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Generally, the calves are born in the field. Despite the common thought that a large number of births require human
or veterinary intervention, this is rarely the case. If a cow doesn't
return to the barn in the morning, a farmer walks into the fields to
see that all is well. After a day or so, the cow will come to the barn,
with her calf alongside, and rejoin the others. </p><p>There is no rush to separate calves from their mothers, unlike at most modern farms where calves are moved to the calf pen within 24 hours of birth. At the Churchtown Dairy, mothers and calves stay together for a few weeks and reunite regularly once the calf moves to the calf pen, another aspect of biodynamic farming that promotes happier and healthier animals.</p><p>As our tour ended, a few families arrived to watch the milking. What a great educational opportunity for children! <br /></p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M6zkmVWT_tA/YQ8xwHaL84I/AAAAAAAAMaU/PfHjsJo_sdsWBHZF5VEGyjMEkBIWnj9DgCLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/11.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M6zkmVWT_tA/YQ8xwHaL84I/AAAAAAAAMaU/PfHjsJo_sdsWBHZF5VEGyjMEkBIWnj9DgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(view through the milking barn to the field)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Raw milk is an important product of the Dairy. Legal certification to be a raw milk producer requires maintaining a rigorous sanitation and hygiene program, along with weekly testing for pathogens. In addition, the milk goes directly from the cow into containers, rather than through tubes and systems to a milk tank. This avoids the excess use of cleaning chemicals.</p><p>In the store, I asked if people came from miles around for the raw milk.
"Yes, they do," she said. "Even if they have farms that produce raw milk closer to their
homes, they often prefer our milk because it has passed the meticulous certification process."</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-beQXp0rdGAo/YQ8xyI2p4SI/AAAAAAAAMaY/_sld6SGmlSQjRr3eRqWLjRA9C_poj_ETQCLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/12.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-beQXp0rdGAo/YQ8xyI2p4SI/AAAAAAAAMaY/_sld6SGmlSQjRr3eRqWLjRA9C_poj_ETQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/12.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(raw milk on the left; frozen beef on the right)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p>Bill and I contemplated how we would use the gift certificate my sister had given us. </p><p>Besides milk, beef, and medicinal or luxury products made from the flowers, cheese is a reason to shop here. A fresh creamy cheese, two types of Camembert, and a semi-hard cheese are cave-aged at the farm and are very popular. The shop also sells books and gift items, some made by local craftspeople. In the end, we brought home two cheeses and a "supernatural washable paper insulated lunch bag." <br /></p><br /><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1pb-mNg086I/YRB_B2D5Z3I/AAAAAAAAMbQ/vkepj2zV240DBc5X-_OHKStDYbMgTsj6wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/thumbnail_IMG_9243.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1pb-mNg086I/YRB_B2D5Z3I/AAAAAAAAMbQ/vkepj2zV240DBc5X-_OHKStDYbMgTsj6wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/thumbnail_IMG_9243.jpg" width="240" /></a></div> </div>It was dinner time when we left the Churchtown Dairy and we were hungry. One option, if we had thought ahead, would have been to bring a picnic. Another is to visit nearby Hudson with its many shops and restaurants. Or you may do as we did, and stop at a familiar restaurant on the ride home.<br /><p></p>Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-84359663459612797242021-06-24T19:35:00.000-04:002021-06-24T19:35:53.502-04:00Hiking in the AMR, 2021<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V36U__OeUko/YM5YyfY8FKI/AAAAAAAAMWI/dHCA7LIMpu4oWact1ISDKD8m9b4NwcRyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC09053.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Summit view from Dial Mountain)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V36U__OeUko/YM5YyfY8FKI/AAAAAAAAMWI/dHCA7LIMpu4oWact1ISDKD8m9b4NwcRyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/DSC09053.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a> <br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was curious about the new Adirondack Mountain Reserve (AMR) pilot parking reservation system and decided that I would try it out for my annual solo hiking retreat. I chose to be away the nights of June 15 and 16, and reserved a campsite at Heart Lake, part of the Adirondack Mountain Club's property within the High Peaks Wilderness area. Next, I would reserve a parking spot in the AMR lot.<br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-btaprVu786I/YM5Yrp9D_eI/AAAAAAAAMV4/ABmNynNFcIMsNtYn7rUoLAmHyw4tyKXKQCLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/DSC09039.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-btaprVu786I/YM5Yrp9D_eI/AAAAAAAAMV4/ABmNynNFcIMsNtYn7rUoLAmHyw4tyKXKQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC09039.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Weather was a bit ominous upon my arrival at the Heart Lake Campground)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>The Adirondack Mountain Reserve is 7000 acres of privately owned land nestled among high peaks and lakes in St. Huberts, New York. The land includes the elite Ausable Club. In 1973, New York State and the Ausable Club worked out conservation and foot traffic easements on some of the club’s land. </p><p>In 2020, an unprecedented number of people chose to be outdoors in the Adirondacks. Overuse and parking issues became a hot topic. Often bandied about was the controversial idea of a permit system for parking and hiking. As a private entity, the AMR had the ability to join the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation in working out a 2021 pilot parking reservation system solely for the AMR lands.<br /></p><p> <br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z5ygEwID-is/YM5YsGcFuKI/AAAAAAAAMV8/fPpkBIXpnO8rBnZWnRw25WUJhvp3UqLhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s4520/DSC09041.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4520" data-original-width="3332" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z5ygEwID-is/YM5YsGcFuKI/AAAAAAAAMV8/fPpkBIXpnO8rBnZWnRw25WUJhvp3UqLhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC09041.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A young hardwood forest near the Noonmark Shoulder, perhaps new growth since the fire of 1999)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>I wondered if I would like registering for a parking permit on a specific day and for a particular time slot for hiking. When my daughter, Meredith, and I were hiking the 46 High Peaks of the Adirondacks, we often changed our plans based on weather or other factors. A permit system would make spontaneity out of the question.</p><p>Still, I jumped right in. On the requisite day, two weeks in advance of my camping days, I went on the AMR website and reserved parking and hiking time slots for the two consecutive days that I would be camping. In the intervening weeks before my trip, I mulled over which trails I hoped to go on, now that I was technically through the gate.<br /></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q19bBLMbopw/YM5Ys8HtqAI/AAAAAAAAMWA/Bn2JUCsXgJs9kUFd-cynwmWVPCxZ6fPmACLcBGAsYHQ/s5050/DSC09043.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3366" data-original-width="5050" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q19bBLMbopw/YM5Ys8HtqAI/AAAAAAAAMWA/Bn2JUCsXgJs9kUFd-cynwmWVPCxZ6fPmACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC09043.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Noonmark Shoulder whets the appetite to continue up Dial, at left)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Immediately before my departure days, the weather forecast predicted 100% rain for part of June 15. I decided that I would skip hiking that day and drive up to my campsite in the afternoon. Before I left home, I cancelled my parking reservation for the 15th. My cancellation went through instantly and I was able able to book the 17th as my second hiking day just moments later. I was pleased with this efficiency.<br /></p><p></p><p>True to the forecast, it started to pour within 30 miles of my destination. As I pulled into the campground, the tumult lessened to a drizzle and I quickly set up my tent. Then I took my salad-with-chicken dinner and folding chair to the lake before the rain settled in again. The air was chilly and windy, and clouds hung heavy on Street and Nye Mountains across the lake. No question, though, it felt great to be there.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KP1Ou1RhJoM/YM5Y5Povc7I/AAAAAAAAMWM/ieMUfBFzhIomhSenX8XquV9b_dItx8BYwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2768/DSC09056.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="2768" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KP1Ou1RhJoM/YM5Y5Povc7I/AAAAAAAAMWM/ieMUfBFzhIomhSenX8XquV9b_dItx8BYwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC09056.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The summit view from Dial Mtn.)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p>There is nothing quite like being cocooned and dry in a small tent with my sleeping pad and bag laid out, my battery light and book ready for some evening reading, while the rain pounds on all sides. When I got tired of reading, I listened to the rain and to music on my iPod. </p><p>Later, I awoke to silence and stepped outside. I could see brilliant stars through the trees above and decided to walk a few feet to a clearing. The milky way crossed the black sky in glittering lights. The next day would be perfect for hiking.<br /></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--pV1fzmWkm8/YM5Y8_V3BTI/AAAAAAAAMWU/TKsV8tfTl-AAYxPH4FwgpKh7gyopThAfQCLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/DSC09057.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5472" data-original-width="3648" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--pV1fzmWkm8/YM5Y8_V3BTI/AAAAAAAAMWU/TKsV8tfTl-AAYxPH4FwgpKh7gyopThAfQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC09057.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(I had been hoping to see lady's slippers on this hike, but did enjoy coming upon a lush community of bunchberry)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>The night temperature had gone down into the low 40s. Daytime highs would rise to a comfortable 65. After my yogurt and granola breakfast, I drove the half-hour to the AMR in time for my choice of an 8:30 a.m. slot. A cheerful young man checked me in and instructed me to park between chalk lines. How leisurely to arrive at the relatively late hour of 8:30 and not have to worry about a parking spot! <br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-96FNsyUXaj8/YM5ZAn6IY7I/AAAAAAAAMWY/TxDLN_lMKEwEoSnEWT43wuZKPz3c0ChpQCLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/DSC09061.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-96FNsyUXaj8/YM5ZAn6IY7I/AAAAAAAAMWY/TxDLN_lMKEwEoSnEWT43wuZKPz3c0ChpQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC09061.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Of the many options, I had decided that on this, my only full day, I would hike to the Noonmark Shoulder of Dial Mountain. From there, I would decide whether to continue on to Dial's summit, the 41st of the 46 Adirondack High Peaks. </p><p>In 1999, a forest fire burned 90 acres of the Shoulder's forested ledges clearing the terrain to bare rock. Hikers have since been treated to an impressive view. </p><p>Alone on the rocks, I had a snack and a short rest. I checked my watch. Only 10:30 -- why not continue on to Dial's summit?</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ERiRj3eH-_w/YM5ZF8UhRpI/AAAAAAAAMWg/E-iqKWuIrfw46bFWx7lfj64HympwVU_WwCLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/DSC09067.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ERiRj3eH-_w/YM5ZF8UhRpI/AAAAAAAAMWg/E-iqKWuIrfw46bFWx7lfj64HympwVU_WwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC09067.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Heart Lake on a cool clear evening)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><br /></p><p>High peaks are difficult hikes, both going up and coming down, but the rewards are great. Dial is not one of the most difficult but it's still challenging and a hefty workout. Whenever I hike a peak by myself, I feel slow and plodding, yet I am always within my expected time frame. When Meredith and I hiked them together, we commiserated about the tough parts and she sometimes sang songs along the way like the Allman Brothers', "Everybody's Got a Mountain to Climb." </p><p>These days, I hike a couple of high peaks a year because the views are unparalleled in New York State, I love being up high, and because I like knowing that I can still do them. If I can hike high peaks, I am pretty sure I can hike just about any mountain that I am likely to come upon during the year. I like heading out and feeling competent.<br /></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WXQ6lz6uUBw/YM5ZHO9KuLI/AAAAAAAAMWk/XtZb0j_YlZI2xJGJ6dTEOKMYorWQTt2tQCLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/DSC09069a.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WXQ6lz6uUBw/YM5ZHO9KuLI/AAAAAAAAMWk/XtZb0j_YlZI2xJGJ6dTEOKMYorWQTt2tQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC09069a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(I was still hoping to see lady's slippers, but this princess pine was very pretty)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><br /><p>From the rocky top of Dial, I could see many familiar mountains
with their slides, humps and hollows. After I had soaked in the view
long enough to carry it in my mind's-eye, I turned and headed back the
way I had come. </p>The hike from the AMR parking lot to Dial's
summit and back is 10 miles, with 3000 feet of elevation gain. I saw
only three people on the trail all day.<p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8vFRpI-_2Xg/YM5ZLkUdfbI/AAAAAAAAMWs/7Y6XEEtpxO4va-e4itl9rTjQaAOgRHWSACLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/DSC09076.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8vFRpI-_2Xg/YM5ZLkUdfbI/AAAAAAAAMWs/7Y6XEEtpxO4va-e4itl9rTjQaAOgRHWSACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC09076.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A very nice view of Giant Mtn. from Round Mtn.)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><br /><p>Evening light was stunning on Heart Lake when I walked from my
campsite to the dock to soak my feet in the lake's cold water. I had
picked up a take-out meal from the Ausable Inn in Keene Valley for my
post-hike dinner and spread it out next to me on the dock while minnows
nibbled my toes.</p><p>A loon swam alone in the distance and then in a
great splashing ran across the top of the water flapping its wings hard
as if it could not take off...until it rose above the lake. It flew four times around the small lake. As it passed overhead, I
could hear the loon's wings propelling its flight until it took off over
the trees and out of sight. </p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xs9oI26vWKc/YM5ZMV-9FSI/AAAAAAAAMWw/D8pGVFTZ6TMrkMOfp_P8afZpQjA69iPKQCLcBGAsYHQ/s3956/DSC09077b.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2728" data-original-width="3956" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xs9oI26vWKc/YM5ZMV-9FSI/AAAAAAAAMWw/D8pGVFTZ6TMrkMOfp_P8afZpQjA69iPKQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC09077b.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Relaxing with Giant behind me)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p></p><p> </p><p>The next morning, I packed up my campsite, since I would drive home
after this day's hike, and ate my breakfast quickly in order to get to
the AMR parking lot by 8:30. I would hike the loop trail to Round
Mountain. This hike is 5 miles round-trip with 1800 feet of elevation
gain -- a great half-day option. Round Mountain was new to me and I was
excited to start out on this spectacular cool clear day.</p><p><br /><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pbOJ5D1oO_M/YNKMqEBMy8I/AAAAAAAAMYs/ZJlGszzJhfcJzAcHut-GvqTjcV29y20ZACLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/DSC09090.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pbOJ5D1oO_M/YNKMqEBMy8I/AAAAAAAAMYs/ZJlGszzJhfcJzAcHut-GvqTjcV29y20ZACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC09090.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A portion of the grand view from Round Mtn.)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p>I had read that Round featured an excellent view of Giant Mountain.
After a steady uphill climb, I was ready for a sit-down when I reached
the outlook framed by deep green spruce trees. I sat on a rock
surrounded by soft moss and ate my snack. </p><p>I continued on a
hemlock needle path for a short distance when the trees opened to a
large outcropping and an immense view from the Champlain Valley in
the east to Whiteface Mountain in the northwest. Nothing I had read
prepared me for such a magnificent scene!</p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LA6OAioeAh4/YM5ZRRqnVTI/AAAAAAAAMXA/UubKfEhKVfE6e8Wba1pWe0i-S57KStLtgCLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/DSC09088.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LA6OAioeAh4/YM5ZRRqnVTI/AAAAAAAAMXA/UubKfEhKVfE6e8Wba1pWe0i-S57KStLtgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC09088.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Looking towards the Champlain Valley and Vermont)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>I didn't stay too long at this summit, but checked out the panorama from
every ledge, and then began my descent. I was almost to the end of the
hike when I decided to take a break. After poking around in
the open woodland a minute, I found a fallen birch log to sit on. </p><p>I fished in my backpack and pulled out the mango that I had been carrying all day. It would have been a good idea to cut up the mango before I began the hike and put it in a container, but I hadn't wanted to bother to take the time to do that. With my father's Opinel knife, I peeled it, cut off sections, and ate the sweet juicy fruit with my fingers -- an exotic treat here in the northwoods. After I collected the peels and pit and stowed them in a sandwich bag back in my pack, I rinsed my hands in a tiny stream that trickled between the rocks.</p><p></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-naE8zd2y1SQ/YM5ZSjIXWVI/AAAAAAAAMXE/yXYReHlq9zogfw1nq9Chya08SsY1HVFJQCLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/DSC09091.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-naE8zd2y1SQ/YM5ZSjIXWVI/AAAAAAAAMXE/yXYReHlq9zogfw1nq9Chya08SsY1HVFJQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC09091.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A perfect spot to take a rest and enjoy the forest...and a mango)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p> </p><p>I had met only four people all day. </p><p>As I reached the end of the trail, I saw the young parking lot attendant coming down the road. We walked the last quarter-mile together. He told me that the response to the AMR parking reservation system had been positive. "I only get about one person a week who is angry about it," he said. Given that the lot holds 70 cars, which would be 490 cars in a week, each car generally carrying a few people, I guess one grouchy hiker isn't too bad. I gave him a very positive report. You just have to think ahead, be a little flexible, and book a couple of days in case of bad weather. <br /></p><p></p>Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-40141277054916658572021-04-30T15:27:00.000-04:002021-04-30T15:27:06.804-04:00The Fenimore Museum and more!<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mxbzKeZKO1Y/YInOcnm-7iI/AAAAAAAAMSQ/DWFY4K2SR8U-EdKgL961bxzVJNxAC0gbgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B1%2B18%2B24%2BPM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mxbzKeZKO1Y/YInOcnm-7iI/AAAAAAAAMSQ/DWFY4K2SR8U-EdKgL961bxzVJNxAC0gbgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B1%2B18%2B24%2BPM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Fenimore Art Museum with pots of daffodils)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p> </p><p>What a treat to go on a cultural outing to the Fenimore Museum in Cooperstown! The last museum Bill and I visited was in 2019, also to the Fenimore and with friends no less. This time we went on our own, reveled in the rural scenery along route 20, and anticipated a pleasant day trip.<br /></p><p>When I saw in the newspaper that the Fenimore was featuring an exhibit of Jan Brett paintings
from her beautifully illustrated children's books, I was
determined to go. I had discovered Jan Brett in the public library when
my own children were small. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y0jNOmo20Mk/YInRnhoVlYI/AAAAAAAAMVM/cBh4dBBLJMktqjMCKtmOdKXz-ATt5dLQgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/books.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y0jNOmo20Mk/YInRnhoVlYI/AAAAAAAAMVM/cBh4dBBLJMktqjMCKtmOdKXz-ATt5dLQgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/books.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Our family's collection of Jan Brett's books)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>During my 13 years working in the children's department of Barnes &
Noble, I became enamored of Jan Brett's written and illustrated books. I bought a few for my children and for gifts. Occasionally, I had them signed when Jan came to
Barnes & Noble for booksignings. <br /></p><p>We all appreciated the authenticity of the paintings. At that time, most of Jan's books took place in the deep snow of Ukraine and Scandinavia. That she traveled to these countries so that her depictions of the scenery, characters, and customs were accurate seemed exotic to us. <br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v5qE0HxyCbw/YInPRm_1vqI/AAAAAAAAMTU/N0TeOkBD7tI8gfl32aJvuRB6vnI94nSrwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B11%2B46%2B28%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v5qE0HxyCbw/YInPRm_1vqI/AAAAAAAAMTU/N0TeOkBD7tI8gfl32aJvuRB6vnI94nSrwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B11%2B46%2B28%2BAM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Lots of holiday baked goods in <i>The Gingerbread Friends</i>)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>The exhibit at the Fenimore showcased her newer books from the 2010s. Jan's illustrations still have her trademark fine watercolor detail,
and the charming border drawings that tell an additional story. </p><p>How Jan Brett has branched out over the years while I have not been
watching! There are now books on Noah's Ark, China, Africa, space, and
even the bottom of the sea. Short of going to outerspace, Jan has
visited each country she illustrates, claiming that being a
writer/illustrator has made for a fascinating life. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ehmcPkXy83Y/YInPeuIcaxI/AAAAAAAAMTY/pjJT0uwGLcUmbym8_HRO0VmKaTyDpwvxwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B11%2B57%2B58%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ehmcPkXy83Y/YInPeuIcaxI/AAAAAAAAMTY/pjJT0uwGLcUmbym8_HRO0VmKaTyDpwvxwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B11%2B57%2B58%2BAM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<i>The Turnip</i>)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p> </p><p>I took my time finding all the details in the pictures, but I gravitated to a simple story published in 2015, <i>The Turnip</i>. The turnip grows to be so
huge that no one can get it out of the ground, until...! The story and
illustrations are fun, and perfect for very young children. I thought of my little grandchildren.<br /></p><p></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-noDxZCLuUa4/YInPu8FpSiI/AAAAAAAAMTo/260opwVSMCISVO7D4S7GmxOJu7JEh6xFACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B11%2B56%2B53%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-noDxZCLuUa4/YInPu8FpSiI/AAAAAAAAMTo/260opwVSMCISVO7D4S7GmxOJu7JEh6xFACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B11%2B56%2B53%2BAM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A rainforest scene in <i>The Umbrella</i>)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p> </p><p>I was particularly taken
with her rainforest book, <i>The Umbrella</i>, so different from the stories with which my children had been familiar. Educators had requested that she
write a tropical version of<i> The Mitten</i>, her classic story based on the
Ukrainian folk tale. To learn about the landscape and animals of the
rainforest, Jan traveled to Costa Rica. She said, "I bought every color of green paint I could, and then I
mixed even more greens."</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kmRQ7PT1gWM/YInP21t-4-I/AAAAAAAAMTw/HAgJfnIMCSgKDxc9xChS6n_ebjtaC-FIACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B11%2B57%2B16%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kmRQ7PT1gWM/YInP21t-4-I/AAAAAAAAMTw/HAgJfnIMCSgKDxc9xChS6n_ebjtaC-FIACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B11%2B57%2B16%2BAM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A young boy peers into the distance as birds and animals create a story in the border paintings)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Although Jan Brett's paintings had drawn Bill and me to the Fenimore, we were also intrigued by another temporary exhibit, Ansel Adams's photographs of the Manzanar War Relocation Center. Adams created a visual documentary of life in the Japanese internment camps in California during World War II. While he portrayed the faces and character of the people who lived in the camps, the majority of his pictures show the evacuees, as they were called, doing everyday things -- going to school, reading the newspaper, farming.<br /></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ypsEJA-QcL4/YInQCDBkHtI/AAAAAAAAMT4/aB-K8qjWVgUNldiRvBgpDoErPKJQJ_1QgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B12%2B38%2B36%2BPM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ypsEJA-QcL4/YInQCDBkHtI/AAAAAAAAMT4/aB-K8qjWVgUNldiRvBgpDoErPKJQJ_1QgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B12%2B38%2B36%2BPM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(This exhibit features some original magazine covers and artifacts as well as Adams's photos)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>More than twenty years later, in 1965, after Adams published the photographs, he said, "The purpose of my work was to show how these people, suffering under a
great injustice, and loss of property, businesses and professions, had
overcome the sense of defeat and despair by building for
themselves a vital community in an arid (but magnificent)
environment." <br /></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oCpbGoMxjHM/YInQIDDLx6I/AAAAAAAAMUA/LF6JWsHX-fMR_fdEhasd9rgsZ53Z2ae8ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B12%2B39%2B09%2BPM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oCpbGoMxjHM/YInQIDDLx6I/AAAAAAAAMUA/LF6JWsHX-fMR_fdEhasd9rgsZ53Z2ae8ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B12%2B39%2B09%2BPM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Adams titled his book of photographs <i>Born Free and Equal</i>)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>My custom when I go to a museum is to read all of the descriptions and study the pictures. Once I've seen the entire exhibit, I walk back through to find the pictures that I either like the best or that I find most thought provoking. </p><p>I found the above picture fascinating. Adams's Manzanar photographs had their first showing in 1944 to people of Japanese descent. I wonder how the viewers perceived these photos of their contemporaries and how different their thoughts were from our impressions of the same pictures today. <br /></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a7Am1F0Xklc/YInQQJFLODI/AAAAAAAAMUE/pSx4Ng4D6Rwl1M20rLVdhNT2NJX-OBXCgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B12%2B43%2B28%2BPM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a7Am1F0Xklc/YInQQJFLODI/AAAAAAAAMUE/pSx4Ng4D6Rwl1M20rLVdhNT2NJX-OBXCgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B12%2B43%2B28%2BPM.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p> </p><p>These two attractive young people were anticipating their return to life outside the camp. The young woman is quoted as saying in 1944, "I have come to realize the false sense of security I enjoyed prior to the war." Ansel Adams's response to this comment was, "Perhaps this sense of security will be re-established as she discovers her place in American life." One can only wonder how her sense of self as a Japanese-American may have resolved itself.</p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W3ROSIh9nLI/YInQXNaBSSI/AAAAAAAAMUM/a3Bnj5rU2cg4lSdHr-QoWnXEKDsIS_WJQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B12%2B07%2B13%2BPM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W3ROSIh9nLI/YInQXNaBSSI/AAAAAAAAMUM/a3Bnj5rU2cg4lSdHr-QoWnXEKDsIS_WJQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B12%2B07%2B13%2BPM.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<i>2020</i>)</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>The Fenimore always has an area showcasing the work of a contemporary or local painter. This picture, entitled <i>2020</i> was painted in 2020 by Mary Nolan, who is inspired by water both at Otsego Lake and at tidal locations. I found the picture intriguing with its stark trees, low water exposing the island's rock, all beneath a stormy but bright sky that lights the water. I wonder what the artist thought the viewer might take from <i>2020</i>.<br /></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F4LKGMpVHPY/YInQh10_ONI/AAAAAAAAMUc/zEnSU5kwffQVkSqC6p9rAh2pNEn_rl_5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B1%2B24%2B40%2BPM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F4LKGMpVHPY/YInQh10_ONI/AAAAAAAAMUc/zEnSU5kwffQVkSqC6p9rAh2pNEn_rl_5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B1%2B24%2B40%2BPM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Otsego Lake)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>After a cup of tea at the Fenimore Cafe and a perusal of the gift shop, Bill and I walked behind the museum to the shoreline of Otsego Lake. The calm gray day was reflected in the water with the hills, a couple of waterfront houses, and a farm field beyond. An allee of old maple trees interspersed with younger replacements created its own natural artistry on this beautiful property. </p><p></p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QCZXFQ99iFc/YInQgyn7nJI/AAAAAAAAMUY/AvhrcdgVVr8ZrHDDyHiZ4BRa4-d-oHHOwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B1%2B27%2B01%2BPM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QCZXFQ99iFc/YInQgyn7nJI/AAAAAAAAMUY/AvhrcdgVVr8ZrHDDyHiZ4BRa4-d-oHHOwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B1%2B27%2B01%2BPM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The allee leads to Otsego Lake and other paths)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><br /></p><p>We had had a great day at the Fenimore but now we were hungry. Where to go? Not surprisingly, we ended up at Brooks' Bar-B-Q, a local classic for sure. Brooks is still going strong, open for take-out or curbside during Covid. We carried our barbecued chicken dinners to Brooks's attractive picnic area.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--wlIYSTGPx4/YInQrzOsq5I/AAAAAAAAMUo/uJbDKukmXVA9MNzDMz6viYFCWn43TJ7mwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B2%2B58%2B39%2BPM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--wlIYSTGPx4/YInQrzOsq5I/AAAAAAAAMUo/uJbDKukmXVA9MNzDMz6viYFCWn43TJ7mwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Photo%2BApr%2B27%252C%2B2%2B58%2B39%2BPM.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(We even parked right under the sign)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>A side note: While perfecting their recipe, the Brookses trained in Prattsville on
Bill's family farm, known for its huge
flock of fine chickens. The Brookses began catering in 1951 using the original
recipe created at Cornell University. And the rest of this story about the Brooks family, that continues to cook 3000 to 4000 chickens a week for churches and fundraisers (pre-Covid) and more at their restaurant, is history!</p><p> </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5i35JHyEBVk/YIn77fTFZ1I/AAAAAAAAMVY/eaCN2qMB4lkCHmjhK3emx5wF2bz2LMIQACLcBGAsYHQ/s1146/Brooks.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1146" data-original-width="855" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5i35JHyEBVk/YIn77fTFZ1I/AAAAAAAAMVY/eaCN2qMB4lkCHmjhK3emx5wF2bz2LMIQACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Brooks.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Bill often barbecues chicken using the recipe from this early Cornell pamphlet.)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p><br /><p><br /></p><br /><br /><br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-46414780430424603772021-02-14T16:09:00.002-05:002021-02-19T20:30:16.713-05:00My Windham High Peak Covid Challenge<p></p><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l30OiMXv8g0/YCXC1nOh6yI/AAAAAAAAMQ4/vlLoJdumjK0OqGsdsh4kaibTxZ4tA73LQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2543/b.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1922" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l30OiMXv8g0/YCXC1nOh6yI/AAAAAAAAMQ4/vlLoJdumjK0OqGsdsh4kaibTxZ4tA73LQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/b.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Virginia, February 2021<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>The idea of hiking Windham High Peak in the northern Catskills every month of the year was not my initial intention. In early March 2020, I had scheduled an Adirondack Mountain Club (ADK) hike to the Tongue Mountain Range overlooking Lake George in the Adirondacks. I was excited to have a full group of 12 participants but, as the date approached, news of the Coronavirus reaching the United States, then the east coast, and eventually New York City suddenly raised concern.</p><p>Carpooling no longer seemed safe. Participants began emailing me that they planned to drive alone to the trailhead. When I remembered that the parking area for the Tongue Mountain hike would only hold about five vehicles, I realized that I needed to come up with a different location.</p><p><br /> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gslKzXs8urY/YCXDRs_D4tI/AAAAAAAAMRA/BiJTMK3_8rsblv5g6hTPbViLeXorFdr8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/2%2B3%2BJims%2BWHP%2BMarch.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gslKzXs8urY/YCXDRs_D4tI/AAAAAAAAMRA/BiJTMK3_8rsblv5g6hTPbViLeXorFdr8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/2%2B3%2BJims%2BWHP%2BMarch.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Three Jims socially distanced, March 2020<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>The large parking lot at Windham High Peak fit the bill. In addition, this mountain is not far from the Albany area and seemed an environmentally conscious option if each car would only include the driver. I knew that many of my participants would decide not to join in such a dramatic change of plans and was not surprised that, of my original group of twelve, just three chose to attend the revised hike. <br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SmbvY3SZHXI/YAXhjoMKMEI/AAAAAAAAMOI/mUcgEIN1IrIqenhvrmVP5Lu_cI8CiMBCACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/7%2BWHP%2BMAy%2BPhoto%2BMay%2B14%252C%2B11%2B31%2B49%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SmbvY3SZHXI/YAXhjoMKMEI/AAAAAAAAMOI/mUcgEIN1IrIqenhvrmVP5Lu_cI8CiMBCACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/7%2BWHP%2BMAy%2BPhoto%2BMay%2B14%252C%2B11%2B31%2B49%2BAM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring Beauties, May 2020<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> <p></p><p>Jim C., Jim G., and Jim O., all men with whom I had hiked many times, were enthusiastic about the new plan. The four of us enjoyed the trail, the camaraderie and the views. We agreed that Windham High Peak had been an excellent alternate hike on a beautiful late-winter day. <br /></p><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WSyztU0dhNM/YAXmJiVNJ7I/AAAAAAAAMQQ/2CoQrdYgWY8-Bz8IJi7QSy6kt-5ZJZuLwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/13%2BWHP%2BPhoto%2BJun%2B08.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WSyztU0dhNM/YAXmJiVNJ7I/AAAAAAAAMQQ/2CoQrdYgWY8-Bz8IJi7QSy6kt-5ZJZuLwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/13%2BWHP%2BPhoto%2BJun%2B08.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking east towards Albany, June 2020<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wj4rqkUO2WA/YAXhqO8Ti2I/AAAAAAAAMOQ/em3_2vSBtxg6ZqtLb1tMqnicq7LZr23HwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/10%2BWHP%2BJune.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wj4rqkUO2WA/YAXhqO8Ti2I/AAAAAAAAMOQ/em3_2vSBtxg6ZqtLb1tMqnicq7LZr23HwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/10%2BWHP%2BJune.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lush forest green, June 2020<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>By April, the Governor encouraged people to stay close to home, which, for me, did not include the Adirondacks. I returned to Windham High Peak because I wanted to hike, knew it had a pretty trail and nice views, and because I wanted to stay in shape for an eventual return to the Adirondacks. </p><p>This time I hiked by myself, the safest choice given the spread of the virus. I saw no one on my way up the mountain, but, on my descent, I passed a few small groups making their ascent. I put on my mask and stepped off the trail to let others go by. Most of the other hikers did the same. <br /></p><p> </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LIosRvjWMlQ/YAXh1Na9OhI/AAAAAAAAMOY/4q9wD2DxnQkza5bViaeXRJnDVtk5CHT3QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/15%2BPhoto%2BJul%2B16%252C%2B11%2B45%2B38%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LIosRvjWMlQ/YAXh1Na9OhI/AAAAAAAAMOY/4q9wD2DxnQkza5bViaeXRJnDVtk5CHT3QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/15%2BPhoto%2BJul%2B16%252C%2B11%2B45%2B38%2BAM.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mountain Ash, July 2020<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-901fgbw3nQs/YAXh1tyNDtI/AAAAAAAAMOc/_70UqYIJljQWSdPPddmfggskLPsVvurJgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/16%2BPhoto%2BJul%2B16%252C%2B11%2B48%2B03%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-901fgbw3nQs/YAXh1tyNDtI/AAAAAAAAMOc/_70UqYIJljQWSdPPddmfggskLPsVvurJgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/16%2BPhoto%2BJul%2B16%252C%2B11%2B48%2B03%2BAM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stinging Nettles, July 2020<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TtW7v-thRaM/YAXh2B3DJ7I/AAAAAAAAMOg/IjKfUOYARdAcptH88mAZfKg7C5adXZkhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/17%2BPhoto%2BJul%2B16%252C%2B12%2B18%2B18%2BPM%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TtW7v-thRaM/YAXh2B3DJ7I/AAAAAAAAMOg/IjKfUOYARdAcptH88mAZfKg7C5adXZkhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/17%2BPhoto%2BJul%2B16%252C%2B12%2B18%2B18%2BPM%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Warm, sultry, and no view, July 2020<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p><p>By June, now my 4th consecutive month on Windham High Peak, I came up with the idea of repeating this hike every month of the year from March 2020 through to February 2021. I dubbed this My Windham High Peak Covid Challenge. I looked forward to watching the seasons change in this particular location. Not only that, the drive from my home was very pleasant as it meandered through beautiful familiar countryside. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vN1WiBr6wH0/YAXiBYhYegI/AAAAAAAAMOo/6wm_QHDu52sKuv1d3zAdLN7k5aYtrXmwgCLcBGAsYHQ/s5333/20%2BAug%2B31a.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3555" data-original-width="5333" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vN1WiBr6wH0/YAXiBYhYegI/AAAAAAAAMOo/6wm_QHDu52sKuv1d3zAdLN7k5aYtrXmwgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20%2BAug%2B31a.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sue, August 2020<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /> July came and I fought with the weather. Summer, with its heat and humidity, is <i>not</i> my time of year. And there were other annoyances. Where spring beauties had lined the path in May, stinging nettles became a plague in July. I had focused on the presence of ticks but hadn't given nettles a thought when I wore shorts and carefully covered my bare legs with tick spray. My skin was virgin flesh for the nettles. </p><p>The sting of stinging nettles lasts 20 or 30 minutes at the most, in my experience, just long enough to be annoying on a warm day during the hike's ascent and back on the descent. In addition, the view was completely socked in and I was getting bored. I decided that I would ask a friend to join me in August, reasoning that two of us driving in two cars and staying socially distant would be safe from the virus and not too environmentally negligent.</p><p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IYjV97gGNDk/YAXkDOMcRMI/AAAAAAAAMQA/uc-GiNPOcZAO9VY6blXn2Q7x30JTn_lcQCLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/24%2Bsept.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IYjV97gGNDk/YAXkDOMcRMI/AAAAAAAAMQA/uc-GiNPOcZAO9VY6blXn2Q7x30JTn_lcQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/24%2Bsept.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favorite hiking companion, daughter Meredith, September 2020<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EyE0tIQ9xUc/YAXiMB4qG7I/AAAAAAAAMO4/qg8vnmp-CX8QAnM8BcpmBqt7tuGWRPN4ACLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/26%2Bsept.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EyE0tIQ9xUc/YAXiMB4qG7I/AAAAAAAAMO4/qg8vnmp-CX8QAnM8BcpmBqt7tuGWRPN4ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/26%2Bsept.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">South-facing view of Blackhead Range, September 2020<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p></p><p>I delayed my August hike long enough to find a cool day. Barely squeaking the trip in, one of my ADK friends, Sue, joined me on the 31st. Sharing the adventure felt great. To top off the day, as we descended, we saw two other ADK friends heading up. We put our masks on and stopped for a short visit. </p><p> </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4nQ-7Fc8aVo/YAXiWClYPGI/AAAAAAAAMPA/IN9VcowSzwIswfWpMQU0gBTRr709L7UngCLcBGAsYHQ/s3652/29%2BDeb%2B10-8.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3652" data-original-width="2613" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4nQ-7Fc8aVo/YAXiWClYPGI/AAAAAAAAMPA/IN9VcowSzwIswfWpMQU0gBTRr709L7UngCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/29%2BDeb%2B10-8.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deb, October 2020<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D64IJBwwNXU/YAXiWzQCLVI/AAAAAAAAMPE/LMYJCg4gfZ8mTCghOsWxNlOb6RnDy2cNACLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/31%2BOct.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D64IJBwwNXU/YAXiWzQCLVI/AAAAAAAAMPE/LMYJCg4gfZ8mTCghOsWxNlOb6RnDy2cNACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/31%2BOct.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking north, mixed autumn color, October 2020<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p><p>Windham High Peak boasts three summit overlooks. The south-facing view faces the Blackhead Range of the Northern Catskills. Another rocky outcropping offers a north-facing scene across hills and a valley of farms and small towns to the Adirondacks in the distance. Finally, continuing on the summit trail and after a slight descent, the Hudson Valley and Empire State Plaza in downtown Albany are visible on a clear day to the east. Any of these is a perfect location for a lunch stop.</p><p> </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-smtUFKUb7lI/YAXijt933WI/AAAAAAAAMPQ/tHW_2HJdfVU1QQ4mt73enOyj1aNJX0OFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/32%2BNov.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-smtUFKUb7lI/YAXijt933WI/AAAAAAAAMPQ/tHW_2HJdfVU1QQ4mt73enOyj1aNJX0OFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/32%2BNov.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trisha, November 2020<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p><p>My daughter, Meredith, came up from New Jersey for my September hike. At the mountain summit, her Garman Watch told us that we had hiked the equivalent of 81 flights of stairs!</p><p>In October, my friend, Deb, displayed the resilience of the lifelong athlete that she is by hiking with me not long after her meniscus surgery. Trisha, one of the women with whom I camp in the Adirondacks, joined me in November. Karen ended 2020 with me in December and brought Dove chocolates to share...just to keep us going, of course! Having someone with me was fun and just the change I needed.</p><p> </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fuEhHiGletg/YAXirTv7hxI/AAAAAAAAMPc/LSeTQ81HTJMW5vhsJ_WAqASRTKWD-HwMQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/39%2Bdec.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fuEhHiGletg/YAXirTv7hxI/AAAAAAAAMPc/LSeTQ81HTJMW5vhsJ_WAqASRTKWD-HwMQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/39%2Bdec.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Karen, December 2020<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Other friends asked if they could accompany me as I began to close in on my year-long challenge, but the virus raged into a double-digit infection rate. I chose to hike alone in January. I basked in the quiet and solitude of winter, saw only three other hikers, and felt far away from the stress and anxiety of life in the valley. <br /></p><p>I was thrilled to see a distant cloud inversion or "undercast." Although many
people I knew had witnessed far more dramatic undercasts this season while hiking
in the Adirondacks and in New Hampshire's White Mountains, I felt fortunate to see one just before the clouds rose and covered the distant mountains. </p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xucibx_u1rY/YAXi1dGn_tI/AAAAAAAAMPg/a4tvGU8XAzg6mCCcd_Fc34BHmQ9sqiqhACLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/41%2BWHP%2BJan.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xucibx_u1rY/YAXi1dGn_tI/AAAAAAAAMPg/a4tvGU8XAzg6mCCcd_Fc34BHmQ9sqiqhACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/41%2BWHP%2BJan.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful snow, southern view, January 2021<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SVnyQv_eKuM/YAXi1UeQRdI/AAAAAAAAMPk/B2pfogI-s1ULLXC9yGsDtdkhOC7cAN08gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/42%2BWHP%2BJan%2B3%2B%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SVnyQv_eKuM/YAXi1UeQRdI/AAAAAAAAMPk/B2pfogI-s1ULLXC9yGsDtdkhOC7cAN08gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/42%2BWHP%2BJan%2B3%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "bones" of the terrain, January 2021<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sAaOhYFn6rQ/YAXi9GeQ6oI/AAAAAAAAMPo/MbETLnnLpUs_aSW5yFcn730bTgC8OukqQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/43%2BWHP%2BJan%2B3%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sAaOhYFn6rQ/YAXi9GeQ6oI/AAAAAAAAMPo/MbETLnnLpUs_aSW5yFcn730bTgC8OukqQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/43%2BWHP%2BJan%2B3%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cloud inversion or undercast, January 2021<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I was excited to complete my "challenge" in February! Even better, Windham had had 25 inches of new snow just the previous week and intermittent lesser storms in the ensuing days. Linda, my friend of more than 40 years, joined me for this very snowy snowshoe outing.</p><p></p><p>With so much snow, Linda and I were glad to find that other hikers had broken the trail and made a nice track in recent days. Additional powder snow fell gently during our entire ascent, adding a fluffy coating to already perfect conditions. While Linda and I both agreed that snowshoeing is harder for us than
hiking on a dirt path, we were grateful for the reprieve from dodging roots and rocks that the depth of the snow provided. </p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9iN3y1ZFlaM/YCXEAeiJgsI/AAAAAAAAMRU/Wobezyru1GkmsFuN5B-gqF54ponfIlhPQCLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/DSC08729.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9iN3y1ZFlaM/YCXEAeiJgsI/AAAAAAAAMRU/Wobezyru1GkmsFuN5B-gqF54ponfIlhPQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC08729.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A deep and nicely broken snowshoe trail, February 2021<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p> </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JfSoJiL5Hcw/YCXDiikacbI/AAAAAAAAMRI/wegDEVWIYYsuLiairdxXGpdczCchi6WQgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2512/DSC08733a.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2512" data-original-width="1748" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JfSoJiL5Hcw/YCXDiikacbI/AAAAAAAAMRI/wegDEVWIYYsuLiairdxXGpdczCchi6WQgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC08733a.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Linda, February 2021</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p> </p><p>We were taken with the pristine beauty and silence of deep winter. Boulders appeared nearly submerged by feet of snow, trail markers seemed low on their posts, white mounds blanketed stone walls, and mountain views shown through the leafless forest. What a fabulous ending to my year spent hiking this Catskill peak. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dlDG6HOmLFk/YCXD3Rzr5rI/AAAAAAAAMRQ/9CJceQfOp1gDbtN5KEztQHrqLQXnIQckQCLcBGAsYHQ/s5472/DSC08738a.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dlDG6HOmLFk/YCXD3Rzr5rI/AAAAAAAAMRQ/9CJceQfOp1gDbtN5KEztQHrqLQXnIQckQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC08738a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Light snow to the south in this iconic view, February 2021<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>What have I learned during My Windham High Peak Covid Challenge? I loved knowing that I had a pre-determined place to hike, whenever I could get there at some point each month. I learned that, even if I began the hike with a sluggish pace, I always became energized in the process. While I like to hike alone, I discovered that my own company gets tiresome. I became familiar with specific trees, rocks, roots underfoot and the ever-changing trail from its beginning crossing the Batavia Kill to the summit plateau. Windham High Peak now holds a special place in my hiking history. <br /></p>Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-24710220834991929562020-07-12T13:59:00.002-04:002020-07-12T14:10:23.685-04:00Local Hikes and More<div>Some of you know that I don't look forward to July, with its notorious heat and humidity. Although June and August can also have unbearable days, it's refreshing to look back at my ongoing series of local hikes in May and June's cooler temperatures.<br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mH8rpIW1sbI/XwJDUz-HpYI/AAAAAAAAMC8/oPj77SJNkrUrMIR3iH_I8jNJn_uSueVjQCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/a%2Bdyken%2B5.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mH8rpIW1sbI/XwJDUz-HpYI/AAAAAAAAMC8/oPj77SJNkrUrMIR3iH_I8jNJn_uSueVjQCK4BGAsYHg/s320/a%2Bdyken%2B5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Sentinels, rocks at Dyken Pond)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hV2nyyOGutk/XwJDVSE86PI/AAAAAAAAMDA/tDe8duCe5o0qFrrnDVQSZShOCTbLOKJtgCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/b%2Bdyken%2B7%2BPhoto%2BMay%2B02%252C%2B11%2B04%2B15%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hV2nyyOGutk/XwJDVSE86PI/AAAAAAAAMDA/tDe8duCe5o0qFrrnDVQSZShOCTbLOKJtgCK4BGAsYHg/s320/b%2Bdyken%2B7%2BPhoto%2BMay%2B02%252C%2B11%2B04%2B15%2BAM.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(a board walk covers a swampy area of trail)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>In early May, Bill and I headed to Dyken Pond Environmental Education Center in the Rensselaer Plateau. Trails spread out from a small parking lot in every direction, covering over thirty-three ecological communities
ranging from beech-maple forests to spruce-fir swamps, beaver ponds and
vernal pools. I especially like the large rocks here, which remind me of the Druid gardens at Blarney Castle in Ireland.<br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6Em2WZsljbE/XwJDV30IV7I/AAAAAAAAMDE/gFP-eSpAQOES1W2Oa3bF1IcKMdIJ-7JDwCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/c%2Bdyken%2B8%2BPhoto%2BMay%2B02%252C%2B11%2B40%2B15%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6Em2WZsljbE/XwJDV30IV7I/AAAAAAAAMDE/gFP-eSpAQOES1W2Oa3bF1IcKMdIJ-7JDwCK4BGAsYHg/s320/c%2Bdyken%2B8%2BPhoto%2BMay%2B02%252C%2B11%2B40%2B15%2BAM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Dyken Pond)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>At the end of our walk, we sat by Dyken Pond and enjoyed a snack. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I was shocked to discover that the sole of one of my hiking boots had become detached from the shoe! I was glad that I hadn't tripped on the flapping sole. Although these are my "local hikes" boots, easily 10 years old and having been retired from more strenuous hiking, I would not consider replacing them during this COVID period when mail order was the only shopping option. <br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t8uUJ69ddf8/XwJDWAOdw7I/AAAAAAAAMDI/RQ6EdoMeY_kQfRZ3CYPyrz61QQoOUrzHwCK4BGAsYHg/s1280/d.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t8uUJ69ddf8/XwJDWAOdw7I/AAAAAAAAMDI/RQ6EdoMeY_kQfRZ3CYPyrz61QQoOUrzHwCK4BGAsYHg/s320/d.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Uh-oh)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>On a mid-week day, my friend, Karen, and I decided to explore the Keleher Preserve, a Mohawk-Hudson Land Conservancy property close to home in the Helderberg Escarpment. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Between the gift of land in 2010 and a later purchase, the Keleher Preserve comprises 447 acres, but so far has only 4 miles of trails. I am so appreciative when people donate their large rural properties for ongoing preservation. This land in Voorheesville could easily have become a housing development.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I was ready for our hike, having duct-taped my boot back together.<br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RoHG8UsmbLI/XwJDW_SuTLI/AAAAAAAAMDM/EHTXJ2xgThsJurak9qkDnegAOMTGhYMowCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/e%2BKeleher%2B2%2BPhoto%2BMay%2B20%252C%2B10%2B03%2B18%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RoHG8UsmbLI/XwJDW_SuTLI/AAAAAAAAMDM/EHTXJ2xgThsJurak9qkDnegAOMTGhYMowCK4BGAsYHg/s320/e%2BKeleher%2B2%2BPhoto%2BMay%2B20%252C%2B10%2B03%2B18%2BAM.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Great signage at the Keleher Preserve)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3IpmXGa1b1o/XwJ9WTuz5KI/AAAAAAAAMGY/x26H7sz8RwET_4u4yNwIUU52yhbWwGb7gCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/g.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3IpmXGa1b1o/XwJ9WTuz5KI/AAAAAAAAMGY/x26H7sz8RwET_4u4yNwIUU52yhbWwGb7gCK4BGAsYHg/s320/g.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Making do)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RoHG8UsmbLI/XwJDW_SuTLI/AAAAAAAAMDM/EHTXJ2xgThsJurak9qkDnegAOMTGhYMowCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/e%2BKeleher%2B2%2BPhoto%2BMay%2B20%252C%2B10%2B03%2B18%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div>Along ravines and through hard wood forests, the well-marked paths lead to a bench and overlook across the valley to the northeast -- a perfect spot to stop for a snack. Early spring-green leaves just began to lend a chartreuse haze across the forest as sun filtering through the trees created a picturesque dappled floor. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fI8mWIONkX0/XwJDXCoWRaI/AAAAAAAAMDQ/Um0QnEFO7L0EIwwc4L9jpjPQagasa-CHACK4BGAsYHg/s2612/f.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1788" data-original-width="2612" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fI8mWIONkX0/XwJDXCoWRaI/AAAAAAAAMDQ/Um0QnEFO7L0EIwwc4L9jpjPQagasa-CHACK4BGAsYHg/s320/f.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>On our next available weekend, Bill and I drove over to the Boulders in Dalton, Massachusetts, just
beyond "hiking local," but still not far from our Albany home. <span style="color: black;">When a friend, who is on the Berkshire Natural Resources Council Board (BNRC), highly
recommended visiting The Boulders, I put it on my list. </span>There are 6 miles of trails on its 645 acres. <span style="color: black;">This extensive preserve belonged to Crane and Company, makers of paper used for U.S. currency. In 2015, the Crane family donated the land to BNRC. </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qUBIYhkDSNw/XwJDYIMPm9I/AAAAAAAAMDY/MfrJ3LuI-v0bswCd5emj-F-sDDqBv86XACK4BGAsYHg/s4032/h%2BBoulders.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qUBIYhkDSNw/XwJDYIMPm9I/AAAAAAAAMDY/MfrJ3LuI-v0bswCd5emj-F-sDDqBv86XACK4BGAsYHg/s320/h%2BBoulders.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(the Reservoir at The Boulders)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><br /><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HGUQyZIREFM/XwJDY_il4PI/AAAAAAAAMDc/PuQQMEPO8JwmVXL-guoZveBwRzqcPFb6QCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/i%2Bboulders%2BPhoto%2BMay%2B24%252C%2B11%2B03%2B24%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HGUQyZIREFM/XwJDY_il4PI/AAAAAAAAMDc/PuQQMEPO8JwmVXL-guoZveBwRzqcPFb6QCK4BGAsYHg/s320/i%2Bboulders%2BPhoto%2BMay%2B24%252C%2B11%2B03%2B24%2BAM.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Rocks and view at the Boulders)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>A woodland trail took us by a small pond, vernal pools, and damp woods where marsh marigolds bloomed. Again, a modest view could be seen through the trees. At first, I thought these trails would lend themselves perfectly to cross-country skiing, but then decided that snowshoes would be safer on some of the narrow curving down-hill runs. Regardless, winter would be a good time to return.</div><br /><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VOQrVrSJIpg/XwJDZQC503I/AAAAAAAAMDg/GN1fVxMW1rk3WhG7mKxeeEZ70dkW2Cf0QCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/k%2Bboulders%2BPhoto%2BMay%2B24%252C%2B11%2B37%2B58%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VOQrVrSJIpg/XwJDZQC503I/AAAAAAAAMDg/GN1fVxMW1rk3WhG7mKxeeEZ70dkW2Cf0QCK4BGAsYHg/s320/k%2Bboulders%2BPhoto%2BMay%2B24%252C%2B11%2B37%2B58%2BAM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Boulders)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Bill and I began June with a perennial favorite, the Huyck Preserve in Rensselaerville. The Huyck Preserve has lower trails climbing from the parking area along the impressive Tenmile Creek Rensselaerville Waterfall and around Lake Myosotis. The newer upper trails, that opened to the public in 2012, edge creeks, rise over hills and criss-cross the stonewalls of long ago farms. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zRi0rlnKjPA/XwJDZg1ngpI/AAAAAAAAMDk/hLFaPhB97gM-9gWVeyKBOFrfG8CZK6OWACK4BGAsYHg/s4032/m%2BHuyck%2BJun%2B01%252C%2B11%2B09%2B31%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zRi0rlnKjPA/XwJDZg1ngpI/AAAAAAAAMDk/hLFaPhB97gM-9gWVeyKBOFrfG8CZK6OWACK4BGAsYHg/s320/m%2BHuyck%2BJun%2B01%252C%2B11%2B09%2B31%2BAM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Lake Myosotis)<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div>I regularly lead Adirondack Mountain Club trips to the Huyck Preserve in any season, and have visited many times with friends and family. With over 2000 acres and more than 12 miles of trails, this preserve also includes one of the oldest biological research stations
in the United States and has supported research continuously since 1938. <br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W_BR7NsnF44/XwJDaGwQ3MI/AAAAAAAAMDo/_BEWXR8U550Fu3QCDSD6ckOVoMyIGMlQQCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/o%2BHuyck%2BJun%2B01%252C%2B11%2B58%2B26%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W_BR7NsnF44/XwJDaGwQ3MI/AAAAAAAAMDo/_BEWXR8U550Fu3QCDSD6ckOVoMyIGMlQQCK4BGAsYHg/s320/o%2BHuyck%2BJun%2B01%252C%2B11%2B58%2B26%2BAM.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Narrow bridge across a wet area)<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SwByUPEhFAI/XwJDajRBx5I/AAAAAAAAMDs/sZKlCRRBS6ge_7Qh_U8gWJsntuA--IIRQCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/p%2BHuyck%2BJun%2B01%252C%2B12%2B53%2B21%2BPM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SwByUPEhFAI/XwJDajRBx5I/AAAAAAAAMDs/sZKlCRRBS6ge_7Qh_U8gWJsntuA--IIRQCK4BGAsYHg/s320/p%2BHuyck%2BJun%2B01%252C%2B12%2B53%2B21%2BPM.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Rensselaerville Falls)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>My friend, Karen, and I drove into Rensselaer County to explore the Kinderhook Preserve on a sultry morning. Neither of us had previously been to this small 85-acre Rensselaer Land Trust property with its five miles of trails. A half-mile trail goes along the edge of Kinderhook Creek where sandy beaches looked inviting for a swim. Other trails border rock cliffs and lead up and down ravines, adding a lot of interest to this outing. Karen and I hiked the perimeter trail first and then the interior trails.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Again, I considered whether the wide trails would be a good XC ski spot, until we reached the steep ravines. Definitely, snowshoes only! One section even had a climbing rope to aid hikers. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kufZb4F8_1I/XwnYo0EEeMI/AAAAAAAAMJc/4hB42tG3vmYzg9n2vTf6EEpbXyyAJcOzQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/t%2BPhoto%2BJun%2B29%252C%2B9%2B07%2B03%2BAM%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kufZb4F8_1I/XwnYo0EEeMI/AAAAAAAAMJc/4hB42tG3vmYzg9n2vTf6EEpbXyyAJcOzQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/t%2BPhoto%2BJun%2B29%252C%2B9%2B07%2B03%2BAM%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Kinderhook Creek)<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JH71pJgdNDc/XwJDb3CblvI/AAAAAAAAMD0/f9xSgV6eofI716jZQS3tnQfeha2IYKgDQCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/u%2BPhoto%2BJun%2B29%252C%2B9%2B36%2B13%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JH71pJgdNDc/XwJDb3CblvI/AAAAAAAAMD0/f9xSgV6eofI716jZQS3tnQfeha2IYKgDQCK4BGAsYHg/s320/u%2BPhoto%2BJun%2B29%252C%2B9%2B36%2B13%2BAM.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Karen pulls herself along with the climbing rope)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div>The Kinderhook Creek Preserve is built around the concept of a “working
forest” which includes ecological and environmental
protection, outdoor recreation, timber production using sustainable
forest management practices, wildlife habitat enhancement, and nature study.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TYA9Om1zHnU/XwJDcfdYrFI/AAAAAAAAMD4/QsYrWf4pjY45rIVrtRNYB0uIlTmQUcVjwCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/v%2BPhoto%2BJun%2B29%252C%2B10%2B52%2B26%2BAM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TYA9Om1zHnU/XwJDcfdYrFI/AAAAAAAAMD4/QsYrWf4pjY45rIVrtRNYB0uIlTmQUcVjwCK4BGAsYHg/s320/v%2BPhoto%2BJun%2B29%252C%2B10%2B52%2B26%2BAM.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Steep terrain abounds at the Kinderhook Preserve)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By mid-June, lush green was everywhere. My friend, Linda, and I went back to a long-time favorite, Thacher Park. It is notable in this blog post that friends became a larger part of my local hiking experience than previously, although Bill and I were still getting out on weekends as well. <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On this day, Linda and I drove separately, not yet comfortable with sharing a car ride. We hiked at a social distance and had our masks at the ready, should we meet other hikers. Incidence of COVID-19 had become extremely low in our Capital Region, but we still took precautions. <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EElU3IeH3AQ/XwJDcwSVKRI/AAAAAAAAMD8/v8UtYtisO2YbV0zrFLFtDMsAa7Do0qnsQCK4BGAsYHg/s1280/w%2Bthumbnail_IMG_7464.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EElU3IeH3AQ/XwJDcwSVKRI/AAAAAAAAMD8/v8UtYtisO2YbV0zrFLFtDMsAa7Do0qnsQCK4BGAsYHg/s320/w%2Bthumbnail_IMG_7464.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(View to Albany from High Point at Thacher North)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>We chose to hike the Fred Schroeder Memorial Trail in Thacher North. Besides leaving a huge volunteer hiking legacy introducing hundreds of underprivileged children to the Adirondacks, Fred Schroeder led weekly hikes for the Adirondack Mountain Club for 30 years. This trail, near his home, was designated a memorial to him after his death in 2010. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Besides its testament to the accomplishments of Fred Schroeder, the trail includes the end point of the Long Path, <span>a 357-mile long-distance hiking trail beginning
at the George Washington Bridge in Fort Lee, New Jersey and ending here. <br /></span></div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RJpnuHAC-bo/XwJDde1UrCI/AAAAAAAAMEA/zembLiESClI4eugb8xgrAmpRCgQutRc9gCK4BGAsYHg/s1205/x%2Bhumbnail_IMG_7465.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="828" data-original-width="1205" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RJpnuHAC-bo/XwJDde1UrCI/AAAAAAAAMEA/zembLiESClI4eugb8xgrAmpRCgQutRc9gCK4BGAsYHg/s320/x%2Bhumbnail_IMG_7465.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Helderberg Escarpment from High Point)<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span></span></div><div><span>Linda and I found a shady spot at High Point Cliff for a snack and visit, facing spectacular views. And to top it off, </span>I had new boots! Thanks to LLBean re-opening, I was able to try boots on and found these that should be perfect for half-day local outings. My old taped-together boots went in the trash.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iOhHR0MvS2U/XwnsoutF95I/AAAAAAAAMJo/NoEXnETaLNUCLVLbBmXPSYKy-1hNHI5qwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/thumbnail_IMG_7520.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iOhHR0MvS2U/XwnsoutF95I/AAAAAAAAMJo/NoEXnETaLNUCLVLbBmXPSYKy-1hNHI5qwCLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h240/thumbnail_IMG_7520.jpg" title="LLBean Women's Alpine Hiking Boots" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(LLBean Alpine Hiking Boots)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>While all these local preserves and parks are wonderful, I longed for the Adirondacks with its wild character and majestic views. I was open to going to any part of the Adirondack Park -- the Lake George area, the high peaks, Indian Lake, anywhere! But the hostels I liked were closed and campgrounds were not open for new reservations or walk-ins.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r0NvYqf_td8/XwJDd5SHrnI/AAAAAAAAMEE/HRxouuVl_T0XMlLUQHzEdxs4zhWOHrBhwCK4BGAsYHg/s5472/z1%2BLoj%2BJo.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r0NvYqf_td8/XwJDd5SHrnI/AAAAAAAAMEE/HRxouuVl_T0XMlLUQHzEdxs4zhWOHrBhwCK4BGAsYHg/s320/z1%2BLoj%2BJo.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Evening view with Heart Lake from Mt. Jo)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>As Outings Chair for the Albany Chapter of the Adirondack Mountain Club (ADK), I receive regular updates from the Club's main office. When an email arrived stating that the ADK-owned campground at Heart Lake, nestled in the high peaks would open at 50% capacity, I knew I had found my destination! With just half of the 31 tent sites open for use, this campground fit my bill. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ay5IQtO4V8I/XwJDeofBMoI/AAAAAAAAMEI/2TNA7-5K2ioQujjDy5aoILKK4xfbBSdTwCK4BGAsYHg/s5472/z2%2Bheart.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ay5IQtO4V8I/XwJDeofBMoI/AAAAAAAAMEI/2TNA7-5K2ioQujjDy5aoILKK4xfbBSdTwCK4BGAsYHg/s320/z2%2Bheart.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Evening and a swim at Heart Lake)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>What a treat to go to a place I loved for a short camping and hiking trip. Taking my "serious hikes" boots along for this trip, I rationalized that it was okay to break away from the Department of Environmental Conservation recommendations to "stay home" and "hike local" just this once. <br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BkrD0Qq8OOw/XwntL8EeRXI/AAAAAAAAMJw/VvVCW3jP6J0cXnnXQ-ZIgGHVk68yz1B5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/thumbnail_IMG_7521.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BkrD0Qq8OOw/XwntL8EeRXI/AAAAAAAAMJw/VvVCW3jP6J0cXnnXQ-ZIgGHVk68yz1B5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/thumbnail_IMG_7521.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Asolo hiking boots, some of the most comfortable I have ever owned)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>A chilly June spell was just beginning to change into a heat wave, but I squeezed in an evening hike up Mount Jo and a day hike to Phelps Mountain, with a swim after each. Camping at Heart Lake was a wonderful break in this COVID period. And there would be more beautiful local places to explore close to home upon my return -- once the heat wave passed. </div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v2WcPPPsKU4/XwJDfFj28lI/AAAAAAAAMEQ/P_7pZEv4-4w9nxZpzAFIxipXiBoh6sf0QCK4BGAsYHg/s5428/z3%2BLoj%2BPhelps.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2360" data-original-width="5428" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v2WcPPPsKU4/XwJDfFj28lI/AAAAAAAAMEQ/P_7pZEv4-4w9nxZpzAFIxipXiBoh6sf0QCK4BGAsYHg/s320/z3%2BLoj%2BPhelps.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Phelps Mtn. is #32 of the 46 Adirondack High Peaks. For my third time hiking this mountain, I was rewarded with the best views I had ever had there.)<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-49548106246035872672020-04-23T21:11:00.000-04:002020-04-23T21:11:15.780-04:00My "Hiking Local" Evolution<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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What a period this has been. Anxiety abounds in this time of the COVID-19 crisis. Early on, New York State recognized that people need natural areas for both physical and mental well-being. The Department of Environmental Conservation (DEC) suggested that people visit our state parks.<br />
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In response, the Adirondacks requested that people not drive long
distances from other areas, carrying the virus with them to small rural
communities where there are limited health care systems. In the
Catskills, some trails have closed because of overcrowding when resources could not
handle the possibility of injured hikers as well as COVID cases.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BXTbivDeqWU/XpOo1Xq8DHI/AAAAAAAAL4Q/_sgRON2iYjsFau3h-RgjO2xYHIbdW5r6wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BXTbivDeqWU/XpOo1Xq8DHI/AAAAAAAAL4Q/_sgRON2iYjsFau3h-RgjO2xYHIbdW5r6wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Bozen Kill Preserve, a Mohawk-Hudson Land Conservancy property)</td></tr>
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Along with those statements came the dictate to "hike local." DEC has not said what staying local means so people have defined the term for themselves. Like many hikers I know, I have ascribed to the policy of the
Adirondack Mountain Club which says that "hiking local" means not
driving more than 30 minutes from your home. We are
fortunate to have an abundance of local parks,
conservancies, and preserves to explore. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(My friend, Karen, and I saw no one while we were at the Bozen Kill Preserve.)</td></tr>
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For me, local hiking began casually. One late-March day, I went to the Pine
Bush alone. The next time I enjoyed the company of my friend, Deb.
Besides staying local, social distancing had become buzz words that required people to stay
6 feet apart so as not to share air space and possible virus molecules
with others. Deb and I were careful to maintain some distance, but we were not
overly vigilant.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pBU1oeG-In8/XpOo4c9ibzI/AAAAAAAAL4Y/Z5QMSoCI2GMMPYPU-QWCP45U6Tu3GpKjACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pBU1oeG-In8/XpOo4c9ibzI/AAAAAAAAL4Y/Z5QMSoCI2GMMPYPU-QWCP45U6Tu3GpKjACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/14.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Old stone walls remind us that the Bozen Kill area was farmed not long ago)</td></tr>
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Every day, new protocols made the news. Social distancing had
taken on a sense of urgency. The third time I went to
the Pine Bush, my friend, Linda, was with me. Linda and I were more strict than Deb and I had
been. We
considered where we walked with every step. And, as if the virus were not
enough to worry about, we needed to protect ourselves
from ticks. Despite all, Linda and I enjoyed the woods and fields, small brooks and waterfalls, had a good workout and a visit to boot, while still staying within the social distancing directive. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I_6_Mz2zQ4Y/XpOo_6r8bmI/AAAAAAAAL4c/yylnfZQDzEs6Q855Xuga-al8wW--5seBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/ad%2BPine%2BBush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I_6_Mz2zQ4Y/XpOo_6r8bmI/AAAAAAAAL4c/yylnfZQDzEs6Q855Xuga-al8wW--5seBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/ad%2BPine%2BBush.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Albany Pine Bush Great Dune area has miles of trails) </td></tr>
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When Governor Cuomo declared that everyone must work from home if at
all
possible, my husband, Bill, settled into his office in our basement. He had plenty of work to do. Days went by without him getting a breath of fresh air or exercise since he was no longer biking to work. We made a
point of going out together for a few hours each weekend. At least, as
housemates, we didn't have to be concerned about social distancing!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yFG46sZ8Z6Q/XpOo_8irIAI/AAAAAAAAL4g/o_sqAiPcwtoCFOgTqi5dwVPOCLfjofwuQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/ae%2BPine%2BBush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yFG46sZ8Z6Q/XpOo_8irIAI/AAAAAAAAL4g/o_sqAiPcwtoCFOgTqi5dwVPOCLfjofwuQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/ae%2BPine%2BBush.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Lichen and fungi add color and texture to the Great Dune Trails)</td></tr>
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We began with Five Rivers Environmental Education Center, just 15 minutes from home. Five Rivers is an old favorite and we know the trails well. Mud season lasts a long time in the Northeast so we skipped our usual route for a dryer one. I heard a high-pitched noise that got louder as we walked -- peepers! The sound of these little frogs in chorus signals the beginning of spring. We sat on a bench by a pond for a few minutes and listened.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwZsGlZFYnyTzYyLEm2PFZpPSeUmgn4br80pi2lefrZdckfQnYHUdcJfAWOIlHhuDEHuKi2IMMPuEhaKAzKIA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe> </div>
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(Peepers at Five Rivers Environmental Education Center) </div>
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When protocols first attempted to curb the spread of COVID-19 and
adults and children all suddenly stayed at home, it seemed that weekdays and weekends were the same. But, as people settled into Monday
through Friday work lives and homeschooling, weekends got busier. On our second weekend, Bill and I went to Thacher Park and were surprised to see that all the parking spots near the overlook were full. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ute62Rp3-po/XpOpNimULGI/AAAAAAAAL40/DkJwWj_So1A4z0NXhlzv-czqlpnF4CNuACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Thacher%2Bview%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ute62Rp3-po/XpOpNimULGI/AAAAAAAAL40/DkJwWj_So1A4z0NXhlzv-czqlpnF4CNuACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Thacher%2Bview%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A lot of people wanted to see the view from the Thacher Park Overlook, so we stayed only a few moments.)</td></tr>
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We parked in the Paint Mine area where we saw few people and where even the cars practiced social distancing. We
headed out on the nature trail with its immediate ascent. As we went uphill, we left families behind. By the time we hit muddy bogs, we lost
adults as well. Small streams and brooks tumbled with snow melt under a bright sky -- a perfect day to be outdoors.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O677UVl5nm4/XpOpK-sVtrI/AAAAAAAAL4w/pgzwWu3pGw0_gBNXMOEPmtvjSoNc_atNACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/af%2BThacher%2BPark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O677UVl5nm4/XpOpK-sVtrI/AAAAAAAAL4w/pgzwWu3pGw0_gBNXMOEPmtvjSoNc_atNACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/af%2BThacher%2BPark.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Mine Lot Creek rushes through Thacher Park)</td></tr>
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An Adirondack Mountain Club acquaintance, Terry, and I went to the Saratoga National Historic Park (Saratoga Battlefield) on a weekday. The sky was a deep blue. I love the battlefield, a place I have visited in all seasons since I was a child. Terry and I chose to hike the 4.6 mile Wilkinson Trail that meanders through fields and woods along the battle lines of the Revolutionary Battle of Saratoga.<br />
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Terry and I very very carefully maintained distance while still soaking in the beauty and serenity of the area. After a while, though, this diligence felt stressful and exhausting...and we hadn't even seen anyone else on the trail! By the time I got back to my car, I decided that, as much as I enjoy my friends, I would hike alone now and then. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-510JoIwvNiw/XpOpwdNCmyI/AAAAAAAAL5E/sizfeJ8U2YgLGpjqff4cttzK02A9n1OtgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/ah%2Bbattlefield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-510JoIwvNiw/XpOpwdNCmyI/AAAAAAAAL5E/sizfeJ8U2YgLGpjqff4cttzK02A9n1OtgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/ah%2Bbattlefield.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(At the Saratoga Battlefield, the Wilkinson Trail goes through woods and fields)</td></tr>
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On our third weekend, Bill and I chose to visit Hollyhock Hollow in Feura Bush, just a few miles south of Albany. Hollyhock Hollow is a charming Audubon property
with trails up a hillside riddled with stone walls, and back down to the
Onesquethaw Creek.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GQNZVb-VWBo/XpOpywa4AFI/AAAAAAAAL5I/q7FGoG1_N6At1k-mpHfWWk2EsqxFFE1fwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/battlefield%2Btrail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GQNZVb-VWBo/XpOpywa4AFI/AAAAAAAAL5I/q7FGoG1_N6At1k-mpHfWWk2EsqxFFE1fwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/battlefield%2Btrail.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Sun filters through the trees at the Saratoga Battlefield)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I was on the lookout for wildflowers. I had seen pictures that other
people posted on Facebook of little forest flowers, yet I had
seen none. On this day, I finally saw a little hepatica blooming
through the brown leaves.<br />
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When we reached the creek, we sat on rocks and watched the water. Even on a Saturday, we saw no one the
entire time we were at Hollyhock Hollow. I almost forgot about COVID-19.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BXcYDDyWpdU/XpOp6wkYGsI/AAAAAAAAL5M/zCPMucnir-UeONRp7wcgT2X7dE7xNe7ogCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Hollyhock%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BXcYDDyWpdU/XpOp6wkYGsI/AAAAAAAAL5M/zCPMucnir-UeONRp7wcgT2X7dE7xNe7ogCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Hollyhock%2B1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Some of the stone for the Brooklyn Bridge is said to have come from this quarry at Hollyhock Hollow)</td></tr>
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All of these short outings were great, each in their own way, but I began to worry that my muscles would turn to mush before I ever got the chance to go back to the Adirondacks. I reserved the nicest day of the following week to head south of Albany and slightly beyond my 30-minute driving restriction for a more strenuous adventure. <br />
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Hiking gear now included a mask. During the first half on my hike, I saw no one. On my return, only 6 people, 3 groups of 2, passed me, heading in the opposite direction. As soon as I heard them in the distance, I pulled my mask out of my pocket, put it on, and stepped off the trail so that they could go on by with lots of distance. I kept my mask on for 30 feet or more while I thought I might still be in their air space. Once sure I was well past, I took the mask off and put it away. I thoroughly enjoyed being by myself in beautiful surroundings, keeping to my own stride, and still maintaining safe directives.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mUARsnQ6hSI/XpOp66D2q1I/AAAAAAAAL5Q/-3HvSpDpseUz5b3bW9lslxKMwTI6TOJ1gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/hollyhock%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="941" data-original-width="1280" height="235" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mUARsnQ6hSI/XpOp66D2q1I/AAAAAAAAL5Q/-3HvSpDpseUz5b3bW9lslxKMwTI6TOJ1gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/hollyhock%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A lonely but cheerful spring hepatica)</td></tr>
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Back at the car, I reached for my antibacterial cloths and hand sanitizer. I realized that, if I got in my car in my own driveway, drove to a trailhead, came in close contact with no one, took precautions when necessary, touched nothing beyond my own backpack and its contents, and drove back to my own driveway, I was not at risk of COVID-19 either to myself or others. I was satisfied with my efforts and with my solo experience.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DjqHCUDISxM/XpOp-KgYdoI/AAAAAAAAL5U/jeWZcpu9ChMOcxy3IHlCnyyrO0Kk6Mo1QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/hollyhock%2B4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DjqHCUDISxM/XpOp-KgYdoI/AAAAAAAAL5U/jeWZcpu9ChMOcxy3IHlCnyyrO0Kk6Mo1QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/hollyhock%2B4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Onesquethaw Creek runs through Hollyhock Hollow)</td></tr>
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I knew, when Bill and I chose Peebles Island State Park for our next weekend excursion, that we would probably not be alone even though we were out early. A volunteer gave us a map, not passed hand-to-hand mind you
but instead dropped onto the ground and picked up, with the location of
an eagle's next marked in pen.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1ZolhD7DY5o/Xp-IdhUnbII/AAAAAAAAL54/nOf2r2-ea6kHVhRFzzUfwoo1R_7pFwB-gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/peebles%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1ZolhD7DY5o/Xp-IdhUnbII/AAAAAAAAL54/nOf2r2-ea6kHVhRFzzUfwoo1R_7pFwB-gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/peebles%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Peebles Island has wide sandy trails and great views)</td></tr>
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Peebles Island is at the confluence of the Mohawk and Hudson Rivers where cliffs rise above fast and raging water. It has historical and natural significance. Bill and I took a trail that crossed the island until it met with the perimeter trail.<br />
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Just a couple of days previous, Governor Cuomo had made the wearing of masks mandatory in close situations. We saw a couple of families, put our masks on when we passed them, and then took our masks off. At times there were long distances between other hikers.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3FTRGaYIVys/Xp-ImaglZMI/AAAAAAAAL58/bgZWWaewOZQ6NeojJf3Xd2PJYtW5uprQgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/peebles%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3FTRGaYIVys/Xp-ImaglZMI/AAAAAAAAL58/bgZWWaewOZQ6NeojJf3Xd2PJYtW5uprQgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/peebles%2B1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Blooming shadblow hangs onto cliff edges at Peebles Island)</td></tr>
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We got a great view of the eagle's nest with an adult eagle clearly visible. Even though eagles are more common now, I am always thrilled to see one. No longer early morning, lots of other people had arrived and were excited about the eagles too. We put our masks on. From there back to the parking lot, we never took our masks off.<br />
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We had had a beautiful morning walking quiet sandy trails through grasses and airy woodlands, and we had seen the eagle on its nest. Still, it felt good to get in our car and take our masks off.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sajnpWeBO90/XqHHFMpiHbI/AAAAAAAAL6Y/OOAKkwBWed0uS_83sRbI-Mb9MCNGqklmwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/eagles%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="776" data-original-width="1600" height="155" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sajnpWeBO90/XqHHFMpiHbI/AAAAAAAAL6Y/OOAKkwBWed0uS_83sRbI-Mb9MCNGqklmwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/eagles%2B1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Eagle on the left in the nest, second eagle on the right in the tree.)</td></tr>
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Whether hiking with a friend, with Bill, or on my own, each outing has been a learning experience. I and my companions always complied with the ever-changing and ever-more stringent protocol and will continue to do so if more restrictions occur.<br />
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Nevertheless, each location has had its own beauty at a time of year when everything is new under a spring sun. And, while I miss the mountains and can't wait to head north someday, there's a lot to be said for re-visiting so many nearby natural areas.<br />
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Bill and I have already chosen next weekend's walking location -- a preserve slightly off the public's radar. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l5SSpgpqbvs/XqIzDVu-A1I/AAAAAAAAL6k/Tbag4-fcxIk9qm2Qz-BWiXpiXx7kl2lsgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/wc%2B4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="375" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l5SSpgpqbvs/XqIzDVu-A1I/AAAAAAAAL6k/Tbag4-fcxIk9qm2Qz-BWiXpiXx7kl2lsgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/wc%2B4.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Wolf Creek Falls Preserve, Mohawk-Hudson Land Conservancy)</td></tr>
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<br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-43498694082138354072020-02-08T19:34:00.001-05:002020-02-15T13:32:01.053-05:00"Home Clearance Distribution"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In 2007, my parents moved from their Saratoga Springs home of 45 years where I grew up to a one-story ranch. Ranch houses are not common in Saratoga and they were pleased to find one they liked. A bigger house than they needed, it enabled them to take almost all of their possessions. This especially pleased my father, who didn't want to get rid of anything. After he died in 2018, my 94 year-old mother began to give the place a once-over.<br />
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She started by asking me to find homes for five sets of cross-country skis. "Someone could be using them," my mother said. At that time, she found it difficult to come to terms with the fact that well-used outdated gear, even if in good condition, would not bring much money. Just finding someone who might continue to use and enjoy various items was my priority and that eventually became hers.<br />
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After I lugged all the skis, boots, and other smaller items to the Adirondack Mountain Club winter gear sale and brought them all home unsold, I tried the online gear swap sponsored by my father's favorite hiking group. I got instant response. I only made $35 for my mother, but recipients had plenty of enthusiasm.<br />
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Usually a few emails were exchanged with gear shoppers to find a meeting location. Eventually, we could set up a time and place, often in the Yaddo Gardens parking lot. One man said, "I used to ski and I want to see if I will want to get back into it now that I'm retired. These will be just right and the boots fit!" Another explained, "I just bought a camp up north. I want a collection of gear for people to use who come to visit." I told him that all of the items I had brought were free. As he considered every one, he asked, "is this at the same good price?" He was thrilled.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tSiHyp7RXc0/XjzXB-AZH1I/AAAAAAAAL0o/wMfkZvNp8_o_HKEbusWj1-y5aOHSI9kPgCEwYBhgL/s1600/thumbnail_IMG_6347d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tSiHyp7RXc0/XjzXB-AZH1I/AAAAAAAAL0o/wMfkZvNp8_o_HKEbusWj1-y5aOHSI9kPgCEwYBhgL/s320/thumbnail_IMG_6347d.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(After emailing the Historical Society director, I sent this set of prints featuring Bergen County, New Jersey, Colonial buildings as a donation to the Bergen County Historical Society)</td></tr>
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Over quite a few months, I have given gaiters to the Sierra Club silent auction, many many clothes to the RISSE, our local refugee center, knitting needles and supplies to UpStitch, a shop that sells donated yarn and fabric for a minimal price. Grassroots Givers accepts any housewares and has a huge library of used books, to which I have contributed.<br />
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Sometimes I <i>have</i> had to dispose of things such as toxic automotive fluids and paint cans that I took to our landfill's toxic waste day. And I have thrown some things out like curtain rods that no place that I have found accepts. I've recycled AAA travel guides from the 1980s and 90s. <br />
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Still, I am convinced that, for most things, there is someone somewhere who can use my mother's no-longer-wanted possessions. She agrees.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M6jU7-FBUfU/Xj4gPG67IXI/AAAAAAAAL1U/7jqTYKsquLYH97YZjyO7sUj2DeoMyCLpwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/thumbnail_IMG_6335a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M6jU7-FBUfU/Xj4gPG67IXI/AAAAAAAAL1U/7jqTYKsquLYH97YZjyO7sUj2DeoMyCLpwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/thumbnail_IMG_6335a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(When I learned that a man who lives just a mile from me has such a huge post card collection that he built an addition on his house, I invited him over. He bought 30 post cards.)</td></tr>
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Selling a couple of my father's old rifles tops the sales adventure list. Online, I found a gun shop not too far from Saratoga in the southern Adirondacks. I called the shop and made an appointment to visit.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QaijxCyYvNM/XjzW_ShqN2I/AAAAAAAAL04/vTrft3YvcvI08eZ1WY8naGiMk13vSLp5QCEwYBhgL/s1600/b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QaijxCyYvNM/XjzW_ShqN2I/AAAAAAAAL04/vTrft3YvcvI08eZ1WY8naGiMk13vSLp5QCEwYBhgL/s320/b.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(I thought this 1939 original program from the Gone With the Wind movie would be special, but there are already plenty of them for sale on ebay and Craigslist)</td></tr>
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On a nice late-summer day, my mother and I struck out for the back of beyond, guns on the backseat of the car. The ride was very pretty as I drove a winding road through wooded terrain looking for the house number on a mailbox. When I found an opening in the landscape with cell service, I called the shop from the car and stated that I was having no luck finding the shop. "But you are almost here!" the kind voice on the other end said. He gave me a few specific landmarks which led us up a wooded dirt lane to the house with its upstairs gun shop.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kGfrX6iWnTk/XjzXCR6rsOI/AAAAAAAAL1I/kgIbLOeZqfo9ny1ISFCiAKdqut6-3ippQCEwYBhgL/s1600/thumbnail_IMG_6354c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kGfrX6iWnTk/XjzXCR6rsOI/AAAAAAAAL1I/kgIbLOeZqfo9ny1ISFCiAKdqut6-3ippQCEwYBhgL/s320/thumbnail_IMG_6354c.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(This 1963 Saratoga Springs Centennial booklet is fascinating, but too common to be marketable)</td></tr>
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I parked the car, opened the back, and took out the rifles. Then I walked to the other side of the car to help my mother negotiate the uneven ground. I held her arm with one hand and carried the rifles in the other. A man in a pick-up truck parked next to me, opened his window and said, "You ladies look great!" Two white-haired women walking arm-in-arm, one with a cane and the other carrying guns -- quite the picture.<br />
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Inside, three older men, two behind two different counters, and one sitting on a stool working with hand tools, occupied the tiny but totally packed room. A glass case was filled with pistols, books lined a shelf, gun supplies and equipment were everywhere, along with a poster of Donald Trump and a picture of Andrew Cuomo with a red X across his face. No sympathy for the Safe Act here.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-awZudh7gX_s/XjzXAfL-j6I/AAAAAAAAL08/4TkryMxEIUEmtQK-rVLy4A8O8howXmScQCEwYBhgL/s1600/thumbnail_IMG_5618a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-awZudh7gX_s/XjzXAfL-j6I/AAAAAAAAL08/4TkryMxEIUEmtQK-rVLy4A8O8howXmScQCEwYBhgL/s320/thumbnail_IMG_5618a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Bicycle gun)</td></tr>
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I laid the rifles on the counter. One of the men turned them over and studied the inscriptions. Then he pulled a Blue Book of Gun Values off the shelf. "Come on over here, and look at these rifles," the man called to another. Turning to us, he said, "He's our history guy."<br />
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The second man said right away, "That one's a bicycle gun." We looked puzzled. He told us, "A bicycle gun is the kind of gun a kid used to carry on his bike. He would shoot squirrels or other small animals from the bike." I was struck by the vision of small groups of boys riding bikes one-handed holding loaded rifles in the other, but that sure sounded like my father. In the 1930s, my father and his friends shot squirrels and rabbits near their childhood farms in Ontario. They would take their bag of game to a fox farmer who paid the boys for any small animal that could be used as fox food. <br />
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The first man made my mother an offer. I started to respond, but she said, "I'll take care of this." This new assertive side of my mother amused me. She quizzed him a little about the price, making it clear that she might be old but she wasn't a pushover. We walked away with $220 for the two guns. My mother was very happy.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(I have been given advice from a friend at the Fashion Institute of Technology
in my efforts to find a home for this exquisite 1927 metallic thread
shawl)</td></tr>
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We took a hiatus from sorting for the holiday season. But when January came, my mother took me back down to the basement. "What can we do with these rugs? " she said. Rolls of rug remnants lined an upper shelf. I pulled a few down. When I came upon a piece of carpet from the old house that had been moved across town to the new house, I couldn't help exclaiming, incredulous, "You moved this with you?" <br />
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I emailed a friend who volunteers at the ReStore. She responded that the store would not take rug remnants. I left the rugs and moved deeper into the basement, poking around a closet. I started hauling suitcases. Turning to my mother, I said, "One time you said you wanted to get rid of these." "Oh yes!" she said, "But do you want to get into that now? That's lot to carry." I turned to her with a sheepish grin, "I guess you caught me on a good day."<br />
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I filled my car with myriad suitcases and luggage, a small board for ironing sleeves, VCR tapes, a carton of drapes and curtains, and more. On my phone, I looked up the hours of the Goodwill. I could leave Saratoga and still stop there before they closed at 8 p.m. With luck I would unload my car without the things ever ending up in <i>my</i> basement!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Shelves of rug remnants)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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I was excited that Goodwill took everything I had brought. I called my mother when I got home. "You are really a Volunteer Home Clearance Distributor," she said. I laughed. "No, you really are," she said emphatically. "It's amazing the way you find places for so many things. You're a pro."<br />
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The next day when I talked to her again, she had had a call from a friend. They had chatted about cleaning out. "I want to tell her the names of some of the places where you take things. You really are a professional home clearance distributor," she said with a tone of great respect.<br />
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In just 24 hours I had risen from volunteer to professional. Although the job doesn't pay and the work is very time-consuming, the reward is seeing a few empty spaces in a full house, and knowing that someone will use the things we are passing along. Before you know it, I'll be driving a van and wearing a bright yellow t-shirt with a business logo!<br />
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<br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-21547208006704593672019-12-14T16:11:00.001-05:002019-12-14T16:11:21.811-05:00My Christmas Card Evolution<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Christmas card, 2019)</td></tr>
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As kids, my sister and I made lots of cards. Relatives' birthdays, Christmas, and other special occasions meant bringing out the colored pencils, crayons and paint. I remember afternoons spent at the kitchen table choosing special paper from my mother's collection and personalizing it with colored pencil drawings under my mother's guiding eye. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cJl9Tn6IT3A/XeKslI3ik7I/AAAAAAAALw4/4NLcaZR2E_w33x-_yv0A5zyQzeii0luwwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1076" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cJl9Tn6IT3A/XeKslI3ik7I/AAAAAAAALw4/4NLcaZR2E_w33x-_yv0A5zyQzeii0luwwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/3.JPG" width="215" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(1980s)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I stopped making cards by the time I was in college. I didn't have the time or inclination to send my friends individually made cards. It took a postage increase, rising to 15 cents in 1980 when Bill and I were early married and counting pennies, that prompted me to remember how economical homemade Christmas cards could be, drawing one original and making any number of xerox copies.<br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5t-6BFq5Pgs/XeKslYakOjI/AAAAAAAALw8/B9clifr-f3owGcPmLHo8TrGt4ufZZJvAwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1089" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5t-6BFq5Pgs/XeKslYakOjI/AAAAAAAALw8/B9clifr-f3owGcPmLHo8TrGt4ufZZJvAwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/4.JPG" width="217" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(1987)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
With pen and ink, I drew my original including an inside "Merry Christmas" done with the swirl of a calligraphy pen. I took the picture on its 8.5 x 11 paper to my copy center. In the 80s, copying meant black and white on "xerox" paper. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OYrLolhYPCE/XeKsls0d9-I/AAAAAAAALxA/FiXdyUhOJ5ECNgOZStMj3v3R6nIEHA4qQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1600" height="230" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OYrLolhYPCE/XeKsls0d9-I/AAAAAAAALxA/FiXdyUhOJ5ECNgOZStMj3v3R6nIEHA4qQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/5.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Eventually, I decided to add a little color. Going back to my childhood tools, I bought some art pencils and individually colored each of the roughly 35 black-and-white pen-and-ink copies that I would send. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a5SaGwtwTCA/XewSOu_1ImI/AAAAAAAALyo/9Zr5RFZLjlwStreXMAfgjdRWIHwZwc8BQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/DSC08007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1259" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a5SaGwtwTCA/XewSOu_1ImI/AAAAAAAALyo/9Zr5RFZLjlwStreXMAfgjdRWIHwZwc8BQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC08007.JPG" width="251" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
As time went on, color copying became available, but it was very expensive. By 1990, postage had gone up to 25 cents! I wasn't about to go crazy making costly color copies. I continued to color my own for a few more years until the price came down.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mwfcqQVCNwc/XewSXd9JFeI/AAAAAAAALys/13st-IZua38qFRzBPbMg8Imnd1l8MqE_ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/DSC08005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1186" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mwfcqQVCNwc/XewSXd9JFeI/AAAAAAAALys/13st-IZua38qFRzBPbMg8Imnd1l8MqE_ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC08005.JPG" width="237" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
As with most technology, the cost of color copies eventually became competitive. Bill bought me watercolor paints for my birthday, and I was off and running in full color!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-95apy5coZsM/XeKsmXqB8XI/AAAAAAAALxM/yG1Y9ZI3-SgkXK8-Olq4RX8tARbFZHfmACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1209" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-95apy5coZsM/XeKsmXqB8XI/AAAAAAAALxM/yG1Y9ZI3-SgkXK8-Olq4RX8tARbFZHfmACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/8.JPG" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(2002)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8iy-fy6KEZY/XesJR4AvXzI/AAAAAAAALyM/kTgcDO2yuRA9Kj8840SgmiesSJE_J4RdwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/DSC08001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1272" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8iy-fy6KEZY/XesJR4AvXzI/AAAAAAAALyM/kTgcDO2yuRA9Kj8840SgmiesSJE_J4RdwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC08001.JPG" width="254" /></a></div>
<br />
My cards became less about cost and more about tradition. I had fun finding a coordinating quote for the inside of the card which I began including along with the painted "Merry Christmas" greeting in a swirl of red.<br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R9-8X5UVPK8/XeKsjEQrICI/AAAAAAAALwU/iwKYBeqJiREwxGdJGI-riMyLg3oglf1OQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1218" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R9-8X5UVPK8/XeKsjEQrICI/AAAAAAAALwU/iwKYBeqJiREwxGdJGI-riMyLg3oglf1OQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/10.JPG" width="243" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(2005)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ScVATb-tlXI/XesI5vQpU5I/AAAAAAAALyA/zDveG8fONGIJfoaPOEmNrBkiVImY_mj4wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/DSC08004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1117" data-original-width="1600" height="223" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ScVATb-tlXI/XesI5vQpU5I/AAAAAAAALyA/zDveG8fONGIJfoaPOEmNrBkiVImY_mj4wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC08004.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Coming up with a subject for the card picture became my biggest challenge. Ideas came from books, magazines, cards I received, or my own photographs. One year, I didn't have a subject that interested me. I decided to buy cards for a change. I was surprised by the response. "I missed your homemade card" or "You didn't make a card this year," friends said in dismay. Finding a new idea that pleases me continues to be a challenge but I haven't taken a year off since. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CmDjHIU05xY/XeKsjDfvLJI/AAAAAAAALwY/xvb3KZzfXCEhMl-RAcfyuigJsZstOnwtQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/11.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1258" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CmDjHIU05xY/XeKsjDfvLJI/AAAAAAAALwY/xvb3KZzfXCEhMl-RAcfyuigJsZstOnwtQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/11.JPG" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(2010)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Best is when I have a subject in mind long before the holiday season arrives. Ideally, I paint the picture in the fall, while sitting at the porch table. It's nice to know that it's ready when I need it.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ki9Z0SY24bg/XeKsjjgNx6I/AAAAAAAALwg/KDVZUBEKbwQm6jlcqcLei7HgoJyV_FakQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1240" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ki9Z0SY24bg/XeKsjjgNx6I/AAAAAAAALwg/KDVZUBEKbwQm6jlcqcLei7HgoJyV_FakQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/12.JPG" width="247" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(2009)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i9qqo-BeOU0/XesIaTs-JkI/AAAAAAAALx4/vWU3kRybeoc0RRXwKL63efRUUBKa372wQCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC08003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1259" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i9qqo-BeOU0/XesIaTs-JkI/AAAAAAAALx4/vWU3kRybeoc0RRXwKL63efRUUBKa372wQCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC08003.JPG" width="251" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
One year I painted my card original but wasn't happy with it. I didn't have another idea, and I didn't want to spend time drawing something else, so I took the painted original to the copy shop and had it printed even though I didn't like it. When the time came to address the envelopes, I couldn't send the card out. It just wasn't good enough. I cut all of the cards up for scrap paper.<br />
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But I still needed a card to send. I looked through my drawings from previous years, and sent out copies of them. No one said, "Didn't I receive that card one other year?" Anyway, how bad is a repeat? Bringing out past favorites is now my back-up plan, should Christmas-card-painter's-block ever haunt me again.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0gpt8SsEV2k/XeKskH-apcI/AAAAAAAALwk/F_wLVjz6HP4S8Knoypldsr1op6T-QROcgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/13.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1203" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0gpt8SsEV2k/XeKskH-apcI/AAAAAAAALwk/F_wLVjz6HP4S8Knoypldsr1op6T-QROcgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/13.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(2008)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kfOk61VDKK4/XewSphdcltI/AAAAAAAALy0/773-fajMNdYD_olWHtTlas249D9DyGrvQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/DSC08000.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1238" data-original-width="1600" height="247" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kfOk61VDKK4/XewSphdcltI/AAAAAAAALy0/773-fajMNdYD_olWHtTlas249D9DyGrvQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC08000.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
I made another change a few years ago. Instead of painting a watercolor background on the paper, I decided to layer colored paper. This was such a simple idea, but something I hadn't thought of doing before. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lVOenpbZjTc/XeKskXOuTAI/AAAAAAAALwo/K6iYOvoW8jgXWDonnL89nCY0aRN7M-MoACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/14.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="1600" height="247" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lVOenpbZjTc/XeKskXOuTAI/AAAAAAAALwo/K6iYOvoW8jgXWDonnL89nCY0aRN7M-MoACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/14.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(black paper, white paper, and paint -- couldn't be easier)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NagIMD-RxIs/XesIEuBgVoI/AAAAAAAALxw/3OboRegiu9YmG7ZZAKUFSwTpMxAcEqhPgCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC08002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1167" data-original-width="1600" height="233" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NagIMD-RxIs/XesIEuBgVoI/AAAAAAAALxw/3OboRegiu9YmG7ZZAKUFSwTpMxAcEqhPgCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC08002.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(2016)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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With multiple layers as in the card below, I challenge the copy
center's machine. A staff member will help me by adjusting the color and intensity levels
until the tones are strong and even. Sometimes the staff
even gets excited by my project. I think I'm a diversion in the copy
shop's day.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h2jAPlUDd2w/XeKsktiZlwI/AAAAAAAALww/sXPAc5qkt3ER6gYF8V0U2gObxOzs1rWuACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/16.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1221" data-original-width="1600" height="244" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h2jAPlUDd2w/XeKsktiZlwI/AAAAAAAALww/sXPAc5qkt3ER6gYF8V0U2gObxOzs1rWuACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/16.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(2017)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
I like finding quotes to put on the inside of the cards, but my painting
skills fail me when I write sentences with a paint brush, such as in the blue one above. "Merry
Christmas" is one thing, but a whole stanza, not so good.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2yFfxOllJOE/XesKYougOXI/AAAAAAAALyc/oLrjrHEAXOUBGbkAKWiZKYbG5kNI35x4QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/17.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1181" data-original-width="1600" height="236" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2yFfxOllJOE/XesKYougOXI/AAAAAAAALyc/oLrjrHEAXOUBGbkAKWiZKYbG5kNI35x4QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/17.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(inside quote, 2019)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
This year, I found a quote that I liked. I showed my mother how I had
painted it on the inside of the card. As usual, I had found writing so many words with a paint brush difficult, and they
didn't look good. My non-digital, non-computerized 94 year-old mother
said, "Why don't you just use your computer, pick a font, and type it?"
Why not, indeed. I still painted "Merry Christmas and a Happy New
Year," but next year, I'm going to type that too, with a pretty font, in
red!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-49199715696288411632019-11-10T20:10:00.002-05:002019-12-14T22:11:37.492-05:00Pitney Meadows Community Farm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1EMo_8zk5Cg/Xcc9TB1E-kI/AAAAAAAALtM/k16ruv8TDv4rUrIeOiPdunxQSJ-h7F4VgCEwYBhgL/s1600/1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1EMo_8zk5Cg/Xcc9TB1E-kI/AAAAAAAALtM/k16ruv8TDv4rUrIeOiPdunxQSJ-h7F4VgCEwYBhgL/s320/1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I have driven past the Pitney Farm for years. It looked so beautiful one time that I took the photo below in the late-afternoon light, but I knew as I admired it that a farm that is not farmed is a bad thing.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, others saw its vulnerability and took action. In 2016, Saratoga Springs city voters and the Pitney family
collaborated to create the Pitney Meadows Community Farm to preserve
farming and education on the last remaining farm within the city limits
of Saratoga.<br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ED_y08BBvtE/XcdVGkNUuNI/AAAAAAAALuo/a1aQ0rirrdw47OMvUwg1GfOH1QzPeHJPACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/dm%2BWest%2BAve.%252C%2BSaratoga.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ED_y08BBvtE/XcdVGkNUuNI/AAAAAAAALuo/a1aQ0rirrdw47OMvUwg1GfOH1QzPeHJPACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/dm%2BWest%2BAve.%252C%2BSaratoga.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(lovely but lonely a few years ago)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
What a treat when my former high school classmate, Jody Terry, a member
the farm's Board of Directors as Education and Program Chair, offered to give
me a tour of the property. "I'll show you around the farm first," Jody said. "Then we'll walk out into the field." <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PTJFHPe0BG4/Xcc9cTJfO-I/AAAAAAAALto/0A0BhQRU3tEiCOjxQVQhErpbLAAwIsPGwCEwYBhgL/s1600/14.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PTJFHPe0BG4/Xcc9cTJfO-I/AAAAAAAALto/0A0BhQRU3tEiCOjxQVQhErpbLAAwIsPGwCEwYBhgL/s320/14.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(an active place brought back to life!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Community gardens are a big part of the Pitney farm. I've seen very large lush community gardens where I live in Albany, but these gardens were new to me. Many are in raised beds.<br />
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I was baffled by the vegetables growing in high metal frames. "People with mobility issues plant vegetables in them," Jody said. "It's very exciting for someone in a wheelchair to be able to have a garden here."<br />
<br />
In addition, one garden plot is a sand box with toys. What a great
way to keep kids entertained while a parent weeds!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OaVLjnBDKAA/Xcc9fv5jYEI/AAAAAAAALtw/h4b55Ii3RlEdYNWT3xo-AiM23zizh1bnACEwYBhgL/s1600/2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OaVLjnBDKAA/Xcc9fv5jYEI/AAAAAAAALtw/h4b55Ii3RlEdYNWT3xo-AiM23zizh1bnACEwYBhgL/s320/2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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A few tables and chairs adorn the gravel pathway beyond the raised beds. Jody told me that some students from nearby Saratoga High, who have off-campus lunch privileges, come over in the middle of the day. I
could imagine that even a few minutes at the farm made a refreshing
change from the loud cafeteria. The Pitney Farm is definitely multi-use.<br />
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At the end of the garden walkway, Jody pointed out the Fairy Garden, created by a woman who spends hours intermingling plants and small decorative items into a unique fairyland. Children can spend a long time discovering fairy hide-outs here.<br />
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A reading area is tucked in among the sunflowers. The tall bending early fall stalks made an attractive canopy, but Jody told me that this "sunflower house" is even more appealing earlier in the year when the chairs are barely visible through summer's growth. On pleasant Saturdays, a reader gathers children amidst the sunflowers for stories in the garden.<br />
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Another row of sunflowers made a division between the garden and field. "We have a contest for the tallest and biggest sunflowers," Jody told me. Children tend to their plants and watch them grow. Raising a new generation of gardeners is part of Pitney's mission, at a time when so many children do not know where their food comes from.<br />
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We went into a small barn where another of my high school friends,
Kim Fonda, dexterously twisted grapevines into baskets just the right size
and shape to fit a sunflower head. These would be sold in the farm
store. Patrons could take them home, hang them outdoors, and watch wild birds congregate. I was impressed that so many people share their
creativity in so many different ways at the Pitney Farm.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Jody and Kim)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Kim's sunflower seed creations)</td></tr>
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The store was the next stop on my tour. Even with the growing season on the wane, there was still much to buy here both on the counter and in a refrigerator.<br />
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A young couple perusing the shop asked a few questions and Jody explained about the Pitney Farm's unusual CSA. Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) has become a popular concept worldwide.<br />
For a season fee, the public can become members of a farm and receive weekly boxes of fresh farm produce, usually picked up at a designated location.<br />
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The Pitney Meadows Community Farm takes a different spin with its "pick your own" CSA, an experience that brings the consumer even closer to the product. A CSA member here can go into the field, look for signs that indicate which areas of the main farm garden are open for picking, and harvest the produce they desire. This eliminates the oft-maligned problem many people have when their CSA has an overabundance of one vegetable. Of course, much or little is due to the vagaries of a growing season, but 5 lbs. of kale can be difficult to manage before the next box arrives.<br />
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The amount of work that has been done here in just two or three years is astounding -- a greenhouse with a pretty door, a flagstone sidewalk, attractive landscaping, all done by a host of volunteers and a few staff members.<br />
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Not all volunteers work in the field. Job options are myriad. Besides farm work, volunteers help with events, desk work, children's programming, and a mind-boggling list of ways that help bring new ideas to fruition.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(popping corn dries on racks in the Children's Greenhouse)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Jody and I walked beyond the buildings to the fields. We could not have picked a better day to be outdoors where a sprinkling of bright foliage added color to the browns and tans of October grasses.<br />
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The Pitney property is huge, and most of it is not actively being used. Future plans for the land include trails, more
vegetables, and maybe even farm animals.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(posted signs designate vegetables ripe for picking)</td></tr>
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Our first stop was a field that supplied the CSA. When Jody pointed out the signs posts at the ends of vegetable rows, I knew they designated picking availability. On this day, quite a few pumpkins still lay in neat rows.<br />
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We walked over to the high tunnels where plants are started early in the season. Student volunteers had been instrumental in covering the tunnel frames with massive plastic sheeting. "Community" is the operative word here.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(high tunnels)</td></tr>
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At home I went on the Pitney Farm website (www.pitneymeadowscommunityfarm.org.) The word "visionary" popped out. Given how much has been accomplished here in such a short time, Pitney Meadows Community Farm is a place to watch and become a part of. Since I don't live close enough to come on a regular basis, I still plan to stop by now and then to see what's available in the shop. And maybe, while I'm there, I'll see if I can find a small inhabitant of the fairy garden.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Fresh vegetables straight from the farm on my kitchen counter)</td></tr>
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<br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-78908775011290885402019-10-14T20:59:00.001-04:002019-10-14T20:59:30.657-04:00Windham Weekend<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M4jkCZ7vTKQ/XaCc3BDKkFI/AAAAAAAALrU/xw2z4ifoZZ8YitBg9sHBIJ4kQBVys8NFACEwYBhgL/s1600/2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1084" data-original-width="1600" height="216" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M4jkCZ7vTKQ/XaCc3BDKkFI/AAAAAAAALrU/xw2z4ifoZZ8YitBg9sHBIJ4kQBVys8NFACEwYBhgL/s320/2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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Early in the year, I suggested that we plan a family weekend in honor of Bill's and my 40th wedding anniversary. Our son, Thomas, and his wife, Marlie, and our daughter Meredith, and her husband, Brian, all responded with enthusiasm. Even a small family has many schedules to work around, but we were able to settle on a weekend in October.<br />
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I was adamant about choosing a location that would be an easy travel
destination for everyone. The Catskills seemed a logical choice. Thomas and I began checking HomeAway and
Airbnb. We found the Mountain House in Windham, a 5-bedroom house that
boasted views and a pond. Meredith and Marlie confirmed our lodging suggestion and the plans were set. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Enjoying the pond and leanto on the property</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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"We're going to Windham?" Bill said with hesitation when I put the
dates on the calendar. A native of Prattsville, just down the road from Windham, Bill does not long to "go
home," especially now that we have no family to visit there. This part of the
northern Catskills would not have occurred to him as a getaway for a family gathering. I hoped he would enjoy a new perspective on an old place.<br />
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A few days before the weekend, I said to Thomas on the phone, "I'm wondering
what we will do there. Do you think we will get bored?" Windham is,
after all, known for winter sports or summer hiking, both of which we
weren't likely to do. Thomas said, "I'm not worried about it." Okay, I
wouldn't worry either.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outdoor fun!</td></tr>
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Bill and I drove from Albany, Meredith took the bus from New York,
and Thomas and Marlie, with little Hayden and Harry, drove up from their
home in New Jersey. Our only disappointment was that Meredith's husband, Brian, had had a recent change of schedule and would not be with us.<br />
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By early afternoon on Saturday, as five adults and two children, we began exploring our weekend house and grounds. Indoors, huge windows and sliding glass doors offered a panoramic view of mountains,
the pond, and trees. The spacious kitchen had all the amenities and the living space boasted three couches and a wood fireplace. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marlie, Hayden and Harry look at spiders on the bocce court</td></tr>
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Outdoors, we gravitated to the leanto by the pond and the yard. Hayden and Harry quickly discovered spiders. They were shocked but
fascinated when I picked up a Daddy Long Legs so that they could have a
closer look. Later I heard Hayden tell Bill, "Grandma picked up a
spider." From then on she found spiders in lots of corners and wondered
if I would touch them. "Only Daddy Long Legs," I said.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bill helps Hayden understand how bocce is played</td></tr>
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Because we had both little children and good cooks, we chose to have all
of our meals at the house and brought food from home. From the open
kitchen, we could keep half an ear on the conversation, an eye on the children, and still look out to the view.<br />
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As I prepared the manicotti that was Bill's and my dinner contribution, I saw three deer nibbling apples under the tree by the pond. "Come look, Hayden," I called across the room. "There are deer eating the apples." I lifted her up to the kitchen window to see. Even from inside, we made enough noise to spook the deer. They ate apples for a few more minutes and then scampered away, tails up.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harry gives croquet a try</td></tr>
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On Sunday, we decided to go to Oktoberfest at Hunter Mountain. Bill took
us on rural roads both to and from Hunter Mountain. We saw
new Colorado-style log houses as well as villages whose better days
were long behind. And always we saw colored leaves over rolling hills and
mountains that reminded us why tourists have come here for fresh air
and scenery for 200 years. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meredith and Hayden play hi-lai</td></tr>
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Oktoberfest is no longer the huge event
that it was in years past when the long-time former owners brought in well-known musicians, and reveling continued well into the evening. We were happy with the new, smaller, more low-key format. We watched a German music and dance performance, ate
a pretzel, kettle corn, or bratwurst. Hayden had her face painted, and
we saw dachshunds training for an afternoon race. By 1:30,
Harry needed a nap and we went back over hill and dale to Windham.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Indoor fun -- Bill and Hayden make a unicorn puzzle</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harry rides the Thomas dinosaur</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Thomas and Marlie planned and prepared Sunday's dinner. With a choice of a gas
grill on the house's deck, or a charcoal grill by the pond, Thomas dressed chicken with a Brooks-style marinade for the charcoal grill.
The sky threatened rain and clouds hung heavy, but did nothing to deter
us from more time by the pond where we kept Thomas company at the grill. The
aroma of barbecued chicken wafted across the property.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Virginia and Hayden read "Scary Scary Halloween"</td></tr>
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Monday's forecast predicted solid rain. We could hear it pounding outside even before we got out of bed. After breakfast we sat around visiting, playing with the children, and enjoying the views out the windows as the rain came down.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Batavia Kill from the recreation path</td></tr>
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A few months before, while checking out bicycling in the Catskills, I had discovered the new 1.5 mile recreational path in Windham. Although not long enough to bother bringing bicycles, the Windham Path would be perfect for a family walk. Yet, here we were on our last day with heavy rain and we had not yet checked it out.<br />
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"I'll go. I need to go outside," Meredith said. I asked the others and no one wanted to
join us. Meredith and I gathered our rain gear as large puddles formed on the deck. After a short drive, we found the Windham Path trailhead. Even fully covered, zipped, and snapped up in torrential rain, we could not miss the beauty of this trail. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meredith on the trail -- why had no one wanted to come with us?</td></tr>
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Rounding the final bend, I heard my phone deep in my rain jacket pocket. Thomas said, "We're going to go out for ice cream. Want to meet us?" Apparently, cabin fever had set in at the house, even though it was only mid-morning. At the Catskill Mountain Country Store, other patrons consumed full breakfasts, but that was not our plan. Breakfast for us had been hours before. We were ready for a serious snack.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harry ate his entire bowl of ice cream with sprinkles and whipped cream</td></tr>
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Attached to the store, hay bales under a roof with enclosed plastic sheeting looked inviting. Bales rose high above the children but not so high that we might lose them in the maze. Running between the bales, admiring the Halloween decor, and petting a
very friendly cat helped the children expend some energy before
heading back to the house. <br />
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The rain still pounded as Thomas and Marlie prepared a pizza lunch. By 2:30, we decided that we should pack up and head home. Thomas and family left first in their car, beeping to us as they drove out of the driveway. Bill and I took Meredith to the bus stop on Main Street for her 4:00 Trailways bus, and then we drove north to Albany.<br />
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Three full days with two nights, not far from home, had made for a great family weekend. I was very pleased and said to Bill, "I bet you never thought you would vacation in Windham, did you." "Never," he said with a smile. <br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lslVapYNP74/XaNaCGOwOnI/AAAAAAAALsQ/asRX_I9RUU81HdT10bNMYhDC3rpZIjbrQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/DSC07772.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lslVapYNP74/XaNaCGOwOnI/AAAAAAAALsQ/asRX_I9RUU81HdT10bNMYhDC3rpZIjbrQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/DSC07772.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-66705883436057911212019-08-04T20:34:00.001-04:002020-04-30T03:19:06.502-04:00Anne La Bastille -- A New Perspective<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H7qASrhWmyw/XUW64omM-4I/AAAAAAAALnc/3mK_sV7regY9MvvugmaLe9vS17jqaYslACLcBGAs/s1600/a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1055" data-original-width="1600" height="211" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H7qASrhWmyw/XUW64omM-4I/AAAAAAAALnc/3mK_sV7regY9MvvugmaLe9vS17jqaYslACLcBGAs/s320/a.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Adirondack loons in the early morning)</td></tr>
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When Leslie Surprenant mentioned on Facebook that she was considering offering an overnight trip to Adirondack author Anne La Bastille's West of the Wind property, I responded immediately. Anne's cabins and land are main characters in her <i>Woodswoman</i> books which describe her life in the Adirondacks and her career as a wildlife ecologist. Some of you will remember my 2017 blog post in which I described Anne's cabin, now at the Adirondack Experience museum: http://nooksandvales.blogspot.com/2017/07/woodswoman-then-and-now.html<br />
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Leslie was a close friend of Anne La Bastille, is the executrix of Anne's estate and an Adirondack Guide. In the eight years since Anne's death, Leslie has worked hard to honor the conditions of her will. She studied and sorted every detail of Anne's material possessions, as well as clearing her 32 acres at Twitchell Lake of extraneous building materials and other detritus.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kCeXOPAPm8o/XUW67YcS4JI/AAAAAAAALnk/ebksTXRZzz477kBve5HPXy7fZ2Pt-zzgwCLcBGAs/s1600/b.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kCeXOPAPm8o/XUW67YcS4JI/AAAAAAAALnk/ebksTXRZzz477kBve5HPXy7fZ2Pt-zzgwCLcBGAs/s320/b.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Twitchell Inn's boat house designed by Earl Covey)</td></tr>
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In mid-July, five of us, including Leslie, left the boat launch at Twitchell Lake in the southwestern Adirondacks. We kayaked up the small lake, while Leslie described the vertical log architecture that we saw along the shoreline. "Earl Covey designed many of the buildings here and on Big Moose Lake. The vertical logs make them very distinctive." She also told about Anne's experience here, reminding us that Anne would park her truck at the boat launch and could only access her property by boat, skis, or snowmobile. We thoroughly enjoyed our leisurely paddle up the lake, but if crossing the water or ice were the only way we could begin to go anywhere, this workout in every kind of weather might become less appealing.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lUTIq9X_5wg/XUW67CIW0AI/AAAAAAAALng/rE5lMlUjnh4NHg99XBBS-Sp9EL6xLN3hgCLcBGAs/s1600/c.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lUTIq9X_5wg/XUW67CIW0AI/AAAAAAAALng/rE5lMlUjnh4NHg99XBBS-Sp9EL6xLN3hgCLcBGAs/s320/c.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The "Point of Anne" marking her property on Twitchell Lake)</td></tr>
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Leslie pointed to a line of rocks jutting into the lake from a wooded promontory and said, "We call this 'The Point of Anne.'" We pulled our kayaks into an opening in the trees and explored the property. Even though I had seen Anne's cabin, which she called "West of the Wind," at the Adirondack Experience, I was taken aback by its former location which only somewhat resembled my imagination.<br />
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The deck is all that remains of Anne's cabin, since the main structure is at the museum. I remembered that Anne wrote in <i>Woodswoman </i>about a glitch in her deed that required that her cabin be moved farther back from the lakeshore. Once moved, the cabin "perched in the woods like a long-legged marsh bird," but the new space created under her cabin by the move came in very handy for storage and for her bath tub! As I looked at the depression in the land and considered Anne's use of the space, my mental picture of West of the Wind began to take shape.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R5BDuD76SP0/XUW68c2JwmI/AAAAAAAALno/y5GzH9njNSYa4WObH_vYRr_Dv4Kn49lQACLcBGAs/s1600/d.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1053" data-original-width="1600" height="210" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R5BDuD76SP0/XUW68c2JwmI/AAAAAAAALno/y5GzH9njNSYa4WObH_vYRr_Dv4Kn49lQACLcBGAs/s320/d.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Two tents in the hollow where Anne's cabin and "basement" had been and one tent on her deck)</td></tr>
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In her second <i>Woodswoman </i>book, <i>Beyond Black Bear Lake,</i> Anne told of her need to build a cabin even more remote than the one on the edge of Twitchell Lake. I had often wondered about this need for more privacy, since her early descriptions had made West of the Wind seem quite remote, especially in the winter. However, here on this July Sunday, I began to understand. Motor boats that seemed too large for this small lake zoomed by. Even though there were trees between the cabin and the lake, I felt a sense of exposure that I had not expected.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The memorial to Anne that Leslie had made, and its "spirit dog" bowl)</td></tr>
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More surprising to me were how many little retreats Anne built. One faced a different view of Twitchell Lake, another had sliding screen doors and served as guest lodging, still another actually had electricity which helped Anne with her ecological career as it progressed well beyond the Adirondacks. All of these additional retreats each had its own character as places for Anne to write in solitude.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A leanto Anne built facing a cove on her Twitchell Lake property)</td></tr>
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The crown jewel in Anne's cabin world is by far Thoreau II,
the subject of <i>Beyond Black Bear Lake</i>. With the help of friends, Anne built this tiny cabin keeping in mind the financial and space constraints that Henry
David Thoreau detailed in his epic book, <i>Walden</i>. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Another structure, with sliding screen doors, reachable by a narrow forested path)</td></tr>
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We
hiked quite a long way through the forest and past
marshes and ponds to reach Thoreau II, although Anne would not have trekked through the woods quite the way we did. She had a canoe
placed on one pond to take her to another. While she still had to hike,
her trail was shorter and in a slightly different location. Add
trail-building to the tasks that Leslie took on over the past eight
years.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Lb88IMPTbX0/XUW7G2eP5rI/AAAAAAAALoA/H7_fYkbI1pAnFUYux_0sVyCxS-EPE-rwACLcBGAs/s1600/i.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Lb88IMPTbX0/XUW7G2eP5rI/AAAAAAAALoA/H7_fYkbI1pAnFUYux_0sVyCxS-EPE-rwACLcBGAs/s320/i.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Under power lines, this cabin is electrified!)</td></tr>
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Thoreau II, with its loft windows looking out to the
forest, is built on the edge of Anne's acreage along Lilypad
Lake, the epitome of quiet and remote beauty. I was smitten. If I could
have a wilderness cabin, this is the one I would want. Surely a writer could find her muse
here. We spent quite a while exploring the cabin and sitting by Lilypad Lake. With reluctance, we returned to the woods and our path.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_a7HByKK2LM/XUW7Hmo7oTI/AAAAAAAALoI/gMhzoVVXNB41byiZBoLKxuxYZ7onKQGbgCLcBGAs/s1600/j.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1044" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_a7HByKK2LM/XUW7Hmo7oTI/AAAAAAAALoI/gMhzoVVXNB41byiZBoLKxuxYZ7onKQGbgCLcBGAs/s320/j.jpg" width="208" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Charming Thoreau II)</td></tr>
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Back at West of the Wind, a couple of people said that they were going in the lake for a swim. I hesitated since the day was cool. "No pressure. No pressure," Leslie said. I knew I would regret not swimming off of Anne's dock. After a few minutes, I dove in. The water was a perfect temperature -- cool enough to be refreshing but without a deep chill. In the end, every one of us went in. How could we not?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Exquisite Lilypad Lake at Thoreau II)</td></tr>
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Leslie had promised us a slide show describing Anne's family background and her drive to become a woodswoman. We would see the pictures "if I can make technology work for me...," she said with hesitation. <br />
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Leslie chose the cabin with the screen doors for this presentation. To create ambience, she covered the rough floor with a green tarp and put a copy of every one of Anne's books on a shelf, standing Anne's pack basket and one of her Guatemalan blankets alongside. All of these items she had carefully transported in her canoe. The colors of the tarp, books, and blanket brightened the mellow pine boards of the shelter as late afternoon shadows from the tall trees outside grew long.<br />
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With a battery and a tiny projector connected to her tablet and a cloth screen tacked to a log wall, Leslie's technological set-up worked. We were fascinated by the pictures and narrative. At the end, Leslie reminded us that Coke was one of Anne's favorite drinks, as was a shot of whiskey. From a cooler, she produced an 8-ounce can of Coke for each of us and a small bottle of Jack Daniels which she passed around. She also shared a plastic container of homemade brownies.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0ZW59HTY_aw/XUW7O362VKI/AAAAAAAALog/9mNbXHwcNq4gFIq620Xp9o2-2MhIzkv1QCLcBGAs/s1600/l.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0ZW59HTY_aw/XUW7O362VKI/AAAAAAAALog/9mNbXHwcNq4gFIq620Xp9o2-2MhIzkv1QCLcBGAs/s320/l.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(the sun begins its descent)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
Like an Adirondack Guide from a century past, Leslie prepared dinner for us. Beginning with an appetizer of crackers topped with cream
cheese and guava paste and ending with black beans and rice, we felt very pampered. "I don't want any leftovers." she said. I know
that I ate my share! Despite offers of help, Leslie
cleaned up the cooking dishes by herself while we each washed our own plates, cups, and flatware.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L56a3hTlV6M/XUW7M2lEn4I/AAAAAAAALoY/laUNIceVtgAFOfFwibtFH2-WuuUvKcfHQCLcBGAs/s1600/la.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L56a3hTlV6M/XUW7M2lEn4I/AAAAAAAALoY/laUNIceVtgAFOfFwibtFH2-WuuUvKcfHQCLcBGAs/s320/la.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Sunset on Twitchell Lake)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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One activity remained -- a campfire and s'mores. Leslie had thought of everything. We chose some dry pieces of wood from a stash under the deck and found sticks
for marshmallows. As always, a
campfire brings out conversation as darkness descends. The sun set over
the lake and the moon rose. Eventually, we put the fire out and went into our tents to the call of a loon. Then quiet settled on the lake.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-evdbh2HXFUY/XUW7RXKtkBI/AAAAAAAALow/ZrHcTJHAXGg0VIIMI6wiyyCRjD3EsI7agCLcBGAs/s1600/m.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-evdbh2HXFUY/XUW7RXKtkBI/AAAAAAAALow/ZrHcTJHAXGg0VIIMI6wiyyCRjD3EsI7agCLcBGAs/s320/m.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Moonrise behind the pines)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In a tribute to Anne's lake and wild lands, I planned to go for a morning paddle. I woke early as I usually do, looked at my watch, and saw that it said 6:45 a.m. I was almost too late! I would barely be out before 7:00! I quickly and quietly put on some clothes and my life jacket and pushed my boat into the water. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7MTHM_acuHA/XUW7RXY2QXI/AAAAAAAALos/zZaUOkbUqpQMdAQvaNLg9kWyp5tlV2TqQCLcBGAs/s1600/n.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7MTHM_acuHA/XUW7RXY2QXI/AAAAAAAALos/zZaUOkbUqpQMdAQvaNLg9kWyp5tlV2TqQCLcBGAs/s320/n.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Point of Anne in the early morning)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Mist was beginning to rise as I dipped my paddle and headed back down the lake towards the boat launch. I had heard a loon call from that direction and hoped to get a picture of one in the early morning mist. Before long, I came upon a group of six loons, more than I had ever seen at one time. I let my paddle sit idle as I watched them. They dipped under the water and came back up, always in a different place but steadily closer to me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iSYSK0y5pRs/XUW7Rr5xxlI/AAAAAAAALo0/W9tQdiSfXUY05jUvSkLYnL0vDp5pkK2lgCLcBGAs/s1600/o.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1063" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iSYSK0y5pRs/XUW7Rr5xxlI/AAAAAAAALo0/W9tQdiSfXUY05jUvSkLYnL0vDp5pkK2lgCLcBGAs/s320/o.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Loons in the morning mist)</td></tr>
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The loons seemed unperturbed by my quiet presence. A few times I turned slightly to watch the mist lift from the ridge behind me. I knew I had been out quite a while and checked my watch. 6:30??!! So I had actually gotten into my boat at 5:45 not 6:45? This is very typical of me, taking a cursory look at the time without putting on my reading glasses and then being shocked later. I was glad that I had misread my watch. I had gotten out in plenty of time before the sun rose and cleared the lake of mist.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rGRxtlwTTwk/XUW7TxhPMzI/AAAAAAAALo4/8OylnHYQcfMgvYJr04BxzpkYdGRljAyywCLcBGAs/s1600/p.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rGRxtlwTTwk/XUW7TxhPMzI/AAAAAAAALo4/8OylnHYQcfMgvYJr04BxzpkYdGRljAyywCLcBGAs/s320/p.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Sunrise on Twitchell Lake)</td></tr>
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A few of the loons had moved farther away and I headed back towards West of the Wind. As I approached the Point of Anne, a loon popped out of the water near the namesake rocks. The sound startled an otter who was perched on the largest rock. It watched the loon as I again sat silent in my boat. All of a sudden, in a great flurry that surprised me and the otter, the loon ran across the top of the water and took flight. The otter dashed into the woods.<br />
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I paddled close to the dock where Leslie was filtering water and anticipating a swim before she began making our oatmeal breakfast. We chatted quietly while our other companions slept. Before I pushed away from the dock to continue my paddle to the other side of the lake, a dark head moved fast, cutting a noiseless path through the water. "A beaver," Leslie said quietly. I was thrilled that I had seen so much wildlife during my early paddle outing. I was grateful for this morning that was bathed in the nature that Anne La Bastille loved so much and spent her life trying to protect both here and around the world. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W3ibNnWI2gw/XUW7UotyCWI/AAAAAAAALo8/_l1ajBT7P1Y5jhlxnLipqCC-Sl-JGgOEACLcBGAs/s1600/q.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1059" data-original-width="1600" height="211" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W3ibNnWI2gw/XUW7UotyCWI/AAAAAAAALo8/_l1ajBT7P1Y5jhlxnLipqCC-Sl-JGgOEACLcBGAs/s320/q.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Our wonderful guide, Leslie Surprenant)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
(End note: Very recently Anne's property has become part of the Pigeon Lake Wilderness. New York State requires that all man-made structures be removed from wilderness lands. It's hard to say when Anne's structures will be taken down, but two weeks
before our trip, the Department of Environmental Conservation removed Anne's outhouse -- no chance of us sitting
on the throne with a view of the pines as Anne had! Leslie told us that Anne's property is the only public land on Twitchell Lake and that people have reported being very pleased that there is a place for them to go as a paddle destination with a picnic or camping spot and paths to hike through the forest. "Anne's property belongs to you now," Leslie said.)<br />
<br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-75823011713144926752019-07-07T14:33:00.001-04:002019-07-07T14:33:42.753-04:00Two New Nearby Trails<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6qqevwCGvMU/XR_Z8xx5P_I/AAAAAAAALmk/_e_a-j6lREIor_7VSF03qAMc73yIyhNPACLcBGAs/s1600/DSC07169b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1113" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6qqevwCGvMU/XR_Z8xx5P_I/AAAAAAAALmk/_e_a-j6lREIor_7VSF03qAMc73yIyhNPACLcBGAs/s320/DSC07169b.jpg" width="222" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Part of the new trail at Kaaterskill Falls, seen from the viewing platform)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Bill and I planned two days to explore two of our favorite places, neither of which we had visited in quite a while. We designated one day to walk the new Skywalk, a two-mile trail that crosses the Hudson River. Our second adventure would be to hike the new trail and stairway
alongside Kaaterskill Falls in the Catskills. We had read about both of
these trails and were eager to give them a try.<br />
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<br />
We began the Skywalk from Olana, 19th-century artist Frederic Church's home, continued across the the Hudson River on the Rip Van Winkle Bridge, ending at Cedar Grove, the home of Thomas Cole, Hudson River School founder and teacher of Frederic Church.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wGJb_7VvgNU/XRZ_FY-45iI/AAAAAAAALk8/-4zcWEJJ8EEBPir3lBitiN8IK_2-hO-EgCEwYBhgL/s1600/1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wGJb_7VvgNU/XRZ_FY-45iI/AAAAAAAALk8/-4zcWEJJ8EEBPir3lBitiN8IK_2-hO-EgCEwYBhgL/s320/1.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Olana, home of Frederic Church in the late-1800s)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Although we had been been to Olana off and on over decades, so much had changed. A grant in recent years enabled needed improvements both inside of the house and out. And now, instead of one house tour, there are many tours to choose from, each with a different focus. We chose the downstairs house tour and the upstairs tour, but there were others such as a garden and landscape tour that we might want to check out another time. Rain came down in buckets on this mid-June day, so indoor tours held more appeal.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bSKMlsoVYV8/XRZ_PauwfCI/AAAAAAAALlY/Fs4qjishLzsmXTUidKiv8s-OHRDih6QOwCEwYBhgL/s1600/2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bSKMlsoVYV8/XRZ_PauwfCI/AAAAAAAALlY/Fs4qjishLzsmXTUidKiv8s-OHRDih6QOwCEwYBhgL/s320/2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(the porch view across to the Catskills)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The rain still came down heavily as we prepared for the walk. Museum staff advised that we not take the steep dirt path from the house to the bridge in the deluge. Instead, they suggested that we begin from the parking lot at the eastern end of the bridge. We took their recommendation, parked near the bridge, donned a full set of rain gear, and stepped out.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ywKj88E0lAY/XRZ_Pwoc-DI/AAAAAAAALlw/JCbcTS6z0tw0rCauolqhBjLKT2ubdaUEwCEwYBhgL/s1600/3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ywKj88E0lAY/XRZ_Pwoc-DI/AAAAAAAALlw/JCbcTS6z0tw0rCauolqhBjLKT2ubdaUEwCEwYBhgL/s320/3.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(the Rip Van Winkle Bridge crosses the Hudson River)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Views of the Hudson River and the Catskill Mountains are this walk's big attraction. Although rain clouds shrouded the mountains, we could look down on the gray river and into the woods directly below. We know the area well, and could see the mountain view in our mind's eye. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bR6pt6NM_Ng/XRZ_SaCsmKI/AAAAAAAALlk/QUEhcxI1gC0no5bkJNXrEkgaqSvjs7p8QCEwYBhgL/s1600/4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bR6pt6NM_Ng/XRZ_SaCsmKI/AAAAAAAALlk/QUEhcxI1gC0no5bkJNXrEkgaqSvjs7p8QCEwYBhgL/s320/4.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Hudson and islands from the bridge)</td></tr>
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Walking on the historic Rip Van Winkle Bridge, built in the 1930s, had not been encouraged in the past. Now, as part of the Skywalk, it is notable as the connection between the two artists' houses. In Cole's and Church's day, a ferry would have taken them back and forth across the river. The two friends often drew and painted together, sometimes on top of the hill with its river view, where Church eventually built Olana.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1cUwO-l3VSQ/XRZ_Uqu_59I/AAAAAAAALlo/pTuctXIYptwWVn6kdQmiLleiA7mNRfizgCEwYBhgL/s1600/5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1cUwO-l3VSQ/XRZ_Uqu_59I/AAAAAAAALlo/pTuctXIYptwWVn6kdQmiLleiA7mNRfizgCEwYBhgL/s320/5.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(What's a little rain? Bill is dressed for the day.)</td></tr>
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After arriving at the western end of the bridge, I decided to walk the Cedar Grove property just far enough to see that Cole's "new studio" had been built. Besides its historic accuracy, the new studio houses contemporary art. I had been dismayed on my previous Cedar Grove visit to see modern art mixed with Cole's furnishings within the house. The house has now been returned to the style of Cole's mid-19th century era. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-41Lv69DSuLA/XRZ_X-0wrYI/AAAAAAAALls/CcfdYOl8TVg00RbCmkOHtKYAX_LvGa6-gCEwYBhgL/s1600/6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-41Lv69DSuLA/XRZ_X-0wrYI/AAAAAAAALls/CcfdYOl8TVg00RbCmkOHtKYAX_LvGa6-gCEwYBhgL/s320/6.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Cedar Grove, Thomas Cole's house in the mid-1800s)</td></tr>
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From house to house, the Skywalk is two miles, four round-trip. The bridge itself is one mile. It's possible to walk just the bridge, parking at one end or the other. Based on our experience, we highly recommend the Skywalk and spending time visiting the homes of Frederic Church and Thomas Cole.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bm_5xIVXtMY/XSD3FrzuqVI/AAAAAAAALmw/quQOJ_KD330FWdGRvgdhuN1dXfDr5xp9gCLcBGAs/s1600/DSC07157.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bm_5xIVXtMY/XSD3FrzuqVI/AAAAAAAALmw/quQOJ_KD330FWdGRvgdhuN1dXfDr5xp9gCLcBGAs/s320/DSC07157.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(the lowest part of the falls along Route 23A)</td></tr>
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We had cloudy but far better weather for our second adventure. <br />
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Kaaterskill Falls drops 260' and can be very dangerous. Fatalities or serious injuries are not uncommon. In the mid-1970s, when Bill took me to the falls from college, we could and did walk anywhere, including behind the falls in the amphitheater high above the base. In addition, at the very top of the falls, we could literally put a hand in water before it tumbled below. Greater use and an increasing number of deaths demanded that changes be made to safeguard visitors.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DqfkAH8bjfs/XRZ_eAmjc1I/AAAAAAAALlU/8RisrFZoYA8VzzMxJrRd1LCk0UoyBmIqACEwYBhgL/s1600/8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DqfkAH8bjfs/XRZ_eAmjc1I/AAAAAAAALlU/8RisrFZoYA8VzzMxJrRd1LCk0UoyBmIqACEwYBhgL/s320/8.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The beginning of the trail rises from Route 23A)</td></tr>
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Some changes were made in the late 1980s. Those changes essentially prohibited people from accessing the highest level of the falls. Not surprisingly, people continued to take risks. <br />
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Last summer, in 2018, $1.25million in upgrades at the falls included a 200-step stone stairway built to get people safely to each of the three levels of the falls. Visitors can still take chances and get hurt, but warning signs are everywhere, and, if people stay on the trails or on the immediate rocks, fewer accidents should occur.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c9sc9AmYy4g/XSE74xRhh5I/AAAAAAAALm8/99CqubFA6c8ErWRcounZ_aGIf1MfOsungCLcBGAs/s1600/DSC07159.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c9sc9AmYy4g/XSE74xRhh5I/AAAAAAAALm8/99CqubFA6c8ErWRcounZ_aGIf1MfOsungCLcBGAs/s320/DSC07159.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A wooden stairway was our first introduction to the new design)</td></tr>
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From the Route 23A parking area, rubbly stones begin the trail. Just beyond, a wooden stairway is built over what was a dirt scramble when we clawed our way up more than 40 years ago. And above that, we encountered our first set of stone stairs. We were totally impressed by the precise construction of this stairway, each stone perfectly placed.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eEHVCnQ2kDQ/XRZ-_wx-mfI/AAAAAAAALkk/Vex9IBCye3U6ciWWy3NooHf4y4ofBMbiwCEwYBhgL/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1129" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eEHVCnQ2kDQ/XRZ-_wx-mfI/AAAAAAAALkk/Vex9IBCye3U6ciWWy3NooHf4y4ofBMbiwCEwYBhgL/s320/10.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The first set of stone stairs)</td></tr>
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And the view at each level? Astounding. The new regulations and construction did not detract in any way from the beauty advertised by the Hudson River School painters in the early 1800s. We were glad that hikers are again able to see the entire set of waterfalls.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-si3bP1LrLsA/XRZ_DSmFnuI/AAAAAAAALlQ/zLisuG4oi9MO-WSLjjXPTbvZUVfaSpbSQCEwYBhgL/s1600/11.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-si3bP1LrLsA/XRZ_DSmFnuI/AAAAAAAALlQ/zLisuG4oi9MO-WSLjjXPTbvZUVfaSpbSQCEwYBhgL/s320/11.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(This series of waterfalls still inspires artists and photographers)</td></tr>
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Today, in the "instagram age," estimates are that an average of 1000 visitors come on every summer weekend day to enjoy Kaaterskill Falls. We saw only about 20 or 30 people on our mid-June day. But, alas, we did see a group of teenagers hiking in flip-flops with beach towels, intending to swim, and we saw people partway across the amphitheater in a bent-over crouch behind the waterfall, but most people didn't take chances. <br />
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In the close-up picture, you can see two people sitting on the ledge. I was glad that they appeared not to be continuing to the steeper more-slippery section.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Gcvp7mpGOA/XRZ_ICS5q6I/AAAAAAAALlQ/Nuyvn07uXh4pfOKEu_2f0ks1SgRH2ZZhQCEwYBhgL/s1600/12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Gcvp7mpGOA/XRZ_ICS5q6I/AAAAAAAALlQ/Nuyvn07uXh4pfOKEu_2f0ks1SgRH2ZZhQCEwYBhgL/s320/12.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The upper falls is magnificent)</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DaP6ge0lEEU/XR_TnRLTumI/AAAAAAAALmE/_JHcaqzeUF8upZYDKlM5bUkNF4TAKPyRwCLcBGAs/s1600/DSC07163a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1337" data-original-width="1450" height="295" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DaP6ge0lEEU/XR_TnRLTumI/AAAAAAAALmE/_JHcaqzeUF8upZYDKlM5bUkNF4TAKPyRwCLcBGAs/s320/DSC07163a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A close-up of the other photo shows people behind the falls)</td></tr>
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Bill and I continued up above the falls on more stone steps to a level summit path. We learned that hikers are encouraged to park at the site of the Laurel
House on top of the escarpment, rather
than at the base on Route 23A as we had. By parking at the top, hikers
avoid the 2/10-mile walk along the road. They also begin with the
highest views and can decide how far down they want to go, rather than starting at
the very bottom planning to go the entire distance to the top. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OXJ-e9U670c/XRZ_Kr72g9I/AAAAAAAALlw/gbYlIVmF6pEr-pbMxLuuVU08t2aA1g-bwCEwYBhgL/s1600/13.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OXJ-e9U670c/XRZ_Kr72g9I/AAAAAAAALlw/gbYlIVmF6pEr-pbMxLuuVU08t2aA1g-bwCEwYBhgL/s320/13.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The upper falls from the new viewing platform)</td></tr>
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The rocks at the very top of the falls, which were popular photography locations, are now completely off limits. Instead, a platform has been built a short distance away. From there, the view is fabulous. I definitely didn't miss peering over the top to see below. Bill and I give this new trail an A+.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9ccbK63SS2U/XRaACADpNUI/AAAAAAAALl4/_CbCwt99UjMvUXwF0_bfiIKIroPOVPqrQCLcBGAs/s1600/15.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9ccbK63SS2U/XRaACADpNUI/AAAAAAAALl4/_CbCwt99UjMvUXwF0_bfiIKIroPOVPqrQCLcBGAs/s320/15.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Kaaterskill Clove from the viewing platform)</td></tr>
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<br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-20475874660975240932019-06-15T19:34:00.001-04:002019-06-15T19:34:07.052-04:00Merck Forest Milestones<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--qLTqz6b7Zc/XQL58MztOyI/AAAAAAAALjs/eXCsyvqZS6MqSUp8YeVoQvheXrl-X9EFgCLcBGAs/s1600/11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--qLTqz6b7Zc/XQL58MztOyI/AAAAAAAALjs/eXCsyvqZS6MqSUp8YeVoQvheXrl-X9EFgCLcBGAs/s320/11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Making strides on the high road)</td></tr>
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My mother had no doctor's appointments this week and nothing pressing on the chore list. "I think we could do something fun," she said when I called.<br />
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She had been wishing to hike on a trail in the woods. Having broken her hip over a year ago and now doing fairly well, we both still knew that a hiking trail might be a stretch. A couple of days went by and then I suggested going to Merck Forest.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-__1kVhpd8w8/XP8BorzNGZI/AAAAAAAALh4/OcYxGfsf074ZNQ4ydYcliNBKBnOYAx83gCLcBGAs/s1600/1%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-__1kVhpd8w8/XP8BorzNGZI/AAAAAAAALh4/OcYxGfsf074ZNQ4ydYcliNBKBnOYAx83gCLcBGAs/s320/1%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Merck Forest has been a family favorite for decades)</td></tr>
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Merck Forest and Farmland Center in Rupert, Vermont, is a non-profit educational
institution with a mission to teach and to demonstrate the benefits of
innovative sustainable management of forest and farmland. It is also a charming place to visit with lots of beautiful dirt roads and trails.<br />
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"Do you think I could walk the road from the parking lot to the farm?" she asked tentatively. I thought she could, but it would take all of her walking stamina to go that far and back. She would not be able to do that and still have enough endurance to enjoy the area.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jYbG1Edzj7o/XP8BqwjIVWI/AAAAAAAALiE/PG_hor5IwFIBROvSNPJ37L2xIWo4ywfDgCLcBGAs/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jYbG1Edzj7o/XP8BqwjIVWI/AAAAAAAALiE/PG_hor5IwFIBROvSNPJ37L2xIWo4ywfDgCLcBGAs/s320/2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(She walked this uphill road to see the views)</td></tr>
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I called the Visitor Center at Merck Forest and told the receptionist, "My mother used to hike at Merck Forest regularly, but now she's nearly 94 and uses a cane. Would it be possible for me to drive her as far as the barn?" Visitors were not allowed to drive beyond the parking lot, but I hoped there could be an exception. "Yes, that would be okay," the woman answered. My mother was thrilled.<br />
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My family has visited and hiked at Merck Forest since it opened to the public in the 1970s. Even now, I regularly lead Adirondack Mountain Club hikes up Mount Antone, on the property. My outings always include a stop at the farm to see the animals, admire the barns, and enjoy the pastoral part of Merck Forest as well.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p4Fenlf69jM/XP8BrXYNPZI/AAAAAAAALiI/utagmwYLIXMhZLKe_n4nUM4V5AqPkD1IQCLcBGAs/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p4Fenlf69jM/XP8BrXYNPZI/AAAAAAAALiI/utagmwYLIXMhZLKe_n4nUM4V5AqPkD1IQCLcBGAs/s320/4.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(And then a little farther so that she could be in the woods)</td></tr>
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My mother loves going to Vermont. She admires all the scenery and comments on changes that have occurred since we last headed over through Washington County from her Saratoga Springs home. Anything from, "oh look, didn't they do a nice job painting that house," to "oh dear, that old barn is listing badly," and even, "I don't know what possessed those people to put that unsightly addition on that pretty place!" And there are the spring flowers, farms with rolling hills, a cafe for coffee and a mid-morning snack, a lunch plan, and ice cream on the way home. "We'll eat our way through the day," she says.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cb2ML1q4PeA/XP8BsIPFTBI/AAAAAAAALiM/gMZfyYRURwkoV9WIPYpqxQls8RouO4QrgCLcBGAs/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cb2ML1q4PeA/XP8BsIPFTBI/AAAAAAAALiM/gMZfyYRURwkoV9WIPYpqxQls8RouO4QrgCLcBGAs/s320/5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(My mother waits under a big maple while I retrieve our lunch from the car)</td></tr>
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With caring for my father until last year, my mother had not been to Merck Forest in a long time and had been fairly certain, since breaking her hip, that she would never go there again. <br />
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I stopped in the Visitor Center when we arrived and was told to park by the sugar house. Once out of the car, my mother was determined to walk the Old Town Road past a farm field to where the forest begins. She only stopped once to rest on the gradual uphill. We admired the view west to the southern Adirondacks and then continued on.<br />
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Sometimes she held onto my arm going over the stony sections, but most of the time the tracks made by farm vehicles were flat enough for her to feel stable on her own. "I want to go into the woods," she said, continuing to where the forest meets the farm. We soaked up the damp earthy aromas and admired the lush green of the woods.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HmL60Bzqv84/XP8BslOim3I/AAAAAAAALiQ/b7ZRAh_RVKoH7nXQnJN-HagVFiYSx7hrwCLcBGAs/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HmL60Bzqv84/XP8BslOim3I/AAAAAAAALiQ/b7ZRAh_RVKoH7nXQnJN-HagVFiYSx7hrwCLcBGAs/s320/6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Lunch with a view, the sun, a breeze, and an appetite)</td></tr>
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Walking back along the road to the farm, we passed a field of sheep and lambs. At first, we couldn't see the lambs because the tall grass made them invisible, but we could hear their urgent bleats. Their mothers called to them in response. Little black lambs bounded over the grass, joining their mothers. We stood a long time, listening, and watching for the lambs to reappear.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FuJW_26Mh2E/XP8Bs1JwYWI/AAAAAAAALiU/IRoFZogktUwFWb0mpn7O7heICDW0i5OrQCLcBGAs/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1092" data-original-width="1600" height="218" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FuJW_26Mh2E/XP8Bs1JwYWI/AAAAAAAALiU/IRoFZogktUwFWb0mpn7O7heICDW0i5OrQCLcBGAs/s320/7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(We could see the sheep better from a distance than we could up close)</td></tr>
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After a picnic lunch, my
mother was ready to explore the barns. Her artist's eye is drawn to
barns. Sometimes her pastel paintings deviate from farm scenes to the
ocean or woods and lakes, but farm scenes are her favorite.<br />
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She was taken with the chicken shed and the road leading to it. I was not impressed with this as a subject for a picture. Regardless, she instructed me to
move this way or that to photograph the shed from a variety of angles. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tCuTSEfmHbs/XP8BtaWHNYI/AAAAAAAALiY/SE9sR2ZImW83IQETcuK5JJZG6OaOe2uJQCLcBGAs/s1600/8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1093" data-original-width="1600" height="218" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tCuTSEfmHbs/XP8BtaWHNYI/AAAAAAAALiY/SE9sR2ZImW83IQETcuK5JJZG6OaOe2uJQCLcBGAs/s320/8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Beautiful chickens and a rooster know what free range is all about)</td></tr>
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After we had studied all of the outbuildings, I asked, "do you want to walk a little way on the Stone Lot Road?" "Sure," she said. She is highly motivated and game for anything when she is determined. We headed up this less traveled, farm road.<br />
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In the distance, far from the barns, we could see Merck's two large work horses. Standing head to hip, their long thick brown tails switched one another's chestnut back.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kp8z-zkHxn0/XP8Bnqc7QtI/AAAAAAAALhw/ortOvCoeJmMFv9BtOL3r4Q2mKHb6p2mGgCLcBGAs/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kp8z-zkHxn0/XP8Bnqc7QtI/AAAAAAAALhw/ortOvCoeJmMFv9BtOL3r4Q2mKHb6p2mGgCLcBGAs/s320/10.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The shed and road that first attracted my mother's eye)</td></tr>
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We discussed whether we should make a circle back down to the barns and the car, or return on the road we had just walked. Not wanting to miss a thing, my mother chose the loop. She turned to me in surprise, and said, "And nothing hurts!" What a tonic this outing was for her.<br />
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Every few feet, she stopped to study the view. She is understandably very fussy about the subjects of her pictures. I take a lot of photographs whenever I see something that may appeal to her and then print them, but the size of her reject pile is very large. I always tell her that she can crop the photos or change the road, or put in different fences or mountains. However, once a picture has been rejected, it rarely resurfaces.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ypRSTiF3Yn8/XP8BpeCbA0I/AAAAAAAALh8/W1sWHf5-S0YOPhTRFot5KX3OmTL2gfQgQCLcBGAs/s1600/12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ypRSTiF3Yn8/XP8BpeCbA0I/AAAAAAAALh8/W1sWHf5-S0YOPhTRFot5KX3OmTL2gfQgQCLcBGAs/s320/12.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Studying the scene as a possible painting subject)</td></tr>
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We came around the side of the field. Walking with an artist is a wonderful way to observe. At each turn of the road, the view changed just enough that I had to go in the garden to get the right angle for a photo, or over there by the tree, or just to the edge of the road, or allow her to step aside when she instructed me to "stand right here where I am." I think the picture below has possibilities for a painting, but what do I know?<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wIevCQUwpdw/XP8BqILuHtI/AAAAAAAALiA/vnzFpvDhGkIn0fYcdtLwJ0zLnpnrBOr9ACLcBGAs/s1600/14%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wIevCQUwpdw/XP8BqILuHtI/AAAAAAAALiA/vnzFpvDhGkIn0fYcdtLwJ0zLnpnrBOr9ACLcBGAs/s320/14%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The big barn and curving road look pretty nice to me)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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On the drive home after our adventure, we admired the same houses and scenery we had seen in the morning, now from the opposite direction. And we remembered. We reminisced about past times at Merck Forest and thought about other drives through this rolling rural countryside. But hunger set in again and we knew just where to fortify ourselves. The Ice Cream Man in Greenwich serves generous portions of delicious homemade ice cream. "Today was an upper," my mother said.<br />
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Here are a few of my mother's pastel paintings that you might enjoy seeing. <br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fxrkXF-I3BA/XQBDO-lqPXI/AAAAAAAALi4/8PSBc1coT0gSyDDeXabFcNaE8D2bL1MYACLcBGAs/s1600/006a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1354" data-original-width="1600" height="270" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fxrkXF-I3BA/XQBDO-lqPXI/AAAAAAAALi4/8PSBc1coT0gSyDDeXabFcNaE8D2bL1MYACLcBGAs/s320/006a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-21390769978087925982019-05-11T20:48:00.000-04:002019-05-11T20:48:31.404-04:00Eight days in Arizona<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xP4swvYzsWU/XMubXipTHzI/AAAAAAAALg0/TaS5tIWVOJMUK-3F3WgH5d_0Ov9C0NDygCLcBGAs/s1600/DSC06851.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xP4swvYzsWU/XMubXipTHzI/AAAAAAAALg0/TaS5tIWVOJMUK-3F3WgH5d_0Ov9C0NDygCLcBGAs/s320/DSC06851.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Virginia and Bill at Red Rock State Park, Sedona, Arizona)</td></tr>
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Over the winter I researched southwest U.S. options for our 2019 trip, because I hoped to visit Native American cliff dwellings, petroglyphs, and red rock country. I forwarded my proposed itinerary to Bill. I knew he would approve. After all, he had been a cultural anthropology major in college.<br />
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In April, we flew to Phoenix, rented a car, and drove north. We began with Montezuma's Castle National Monument, a
partially-restored cliff dwelling in the Verde Valley. Between 600 and 1000 years ago, the dwelling
was 5 stories high and housed a community of 150-200 Sinagua people. Below the cliff, the Beaver River offered water and a flood plain for farming.<br />
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Near the Visitor Center, a man played an
Indian flute. The serene music floated through the site on this beautiful
70-degree sunny day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tlp04wNdJ6M/XMuZ21ZsHRI/AAAAAAAALfs/YtRvrkEQg74l6NPQZeVmu6wreaMNg5qjwCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC06600.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tlp04wNdJ6M/XMuZ21ZsHRI/AAAAAAAALfs/YtRvrkEQg74l6NPQZeVmu6wreaMNg5qjwCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06600.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Montezuma's Castle)</td></tr>
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From the castle, we drove to nearby Montezuma's Well.
This amazing pond comes from an underground flow of water to a spring here which fills the pond with 1.5 million gallons of water each day. From the pond, the water briefly
goes back underground and comes out into Beaver Creek where it added to the life-blood of the Native American communities.<br />
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Because the pond is isolated between the influx and outflow of water, it is home to five species of
aquatic life that exist nowhere else in the world. I thought this small area of water, caught in time, was fascinating as well as beautiful. Having visited the castle and the well, we became very aware of Arizona's historic and ongoing need to be water-thrifty.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MLu7WoZdfZw/XMuZ31HmJLI/AAAAAAAALfI/w94XWD3IHmgSdw0dPVUq_bzvQg0q7xs5ACEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC06616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MLu7WoZdfZw/XMuZ31HmJLI/AAAAAAAALfI/w94XWD3IHmgSdw0dPVUq_bzvQg0q7xs5ACEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06616.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Montezuma's Well)</td></tr>
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We had had an eventful day so Bill chose to relax at our lodging, where he researched dining options on his phone. It was too early for me to settle in, so I picked one of many appealing hikes for a late-afternoon activity.<br />
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Earlier, I had run into a couple of people who recommended hiking the Chapel Trail to Chicken Point, set farther into Sedona's iconic red rock terrain. According to the couple, teenagers would drive jeeps up to the point from a road
on the far side, and dare each other on the rock ledge, playing
chicken. They did not tell me if anyone had been killed doing this and I didn't ask....</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H9X7EG61oxw/XMzUJ1ZgJ6I/AAAAAAAALhQ/fqEsEBJXVoAIGP9Dl26Pmpv10qJA_-ixACLcBGAs/s1600/DSC06644.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H9X7EG61oxw/XMzUJ1ZgJ6I/AAAAAAAALhQ/fqEsEBJXVoAIGP9Dl26Pmpv10qJA_-ixACLcBGAs/s320/DSC06644.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Chapel Trail leads into the red rock terrain)</td></tr>
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Western trails are such a treat for those of us who come from the Northeast. This root-free hazard-free trail of red sand made it possible for me to keep my eyes on the view that changed with every turn. Eventually, I could see a rock shelf above me and hear voices. I followed the trail around the biggest rocks and scrambled up a few smaller boulders.<br />
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By the time I arrived at Chicken Point, I had the place to myself. An open panorama of rocks and cliffs going far in both directions greeted me. Sedona is famous as a film location for mid-twentieth century western movies. I could imagine a lone film cowboy on his horse here at Chicken Point scanning the wide horizon. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kpiqXeTVIEM/XMuZ-_K4tnI/AAAAAAAALfs/tmFKct_MGTk-mihvgJS3qIeDYXZz9HRVwCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC06656.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kpiqXeTVIEM/XMuZ-_K4tnI/AAAAAAAALfs/tmFKct_MGTk-mihvgJS3qIeDYXZz9HRVwCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06656.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The rounded red rock of Chicken Point)</td></tr>
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Our next adventure in what I began to call "our study of Native American agrarian culture" was Tuzigoot National Monument, the largest and best-preserved pueblo
ruin of the Sinagua. On a hilltop overlooking the Verde Valley, this structure was once three stories high.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BbYtit7taE4/XMuZ-u1CooI/AAAAAAAALfs/1jzXCQwjarMqF1Fm4EhGO493syh4b71HACEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06681.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Tuzigoot is on a high hill overlooking the Verde Valley)</td></tr>
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Besides the Verde River not far away,
this agrarian community had a marsh. I looked into the distance, seeing nothing, and thought the marsh must already be dry even in April. Still, we walked the trail to an overlook, reading the signs and admiring the wildflowers. One of the descriptive plaques talked about birds, otters, herons, and other water animals
that lived in the marsh. I was skeptical. Herons, otters, really??
At that moment, a heron flew over my head! With renewed effort, we were able to
distinguish water from the field. Even this small water body had provided the Sinagua with a more varied and healthy diet.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-acIxKVyrTWQ/XMzTk2gQpqI/AAAAAAAALhA/yDGHTgQOaGY8qaA0cORs8wowRu-TMlZuQCLcBGAs/s1600/DSC06694.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-acIxKVyrTWQ/XMzTk2gQpqI/AAAAAAAALhA/yDGHTgQOaGY8qaA0cORs8wowRu-TMlZuQCLcBGAs/s320/DSC06694.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Tuzigoot National Monument)</td></tr>
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Thanks to tour books I had perused over the winter, I expected that the town of Jerome would be a fun place to visit and a perfect lunch location after our morning at Tuzigoot. Jerome, once
a copper mining village, and now in the process of renovation as an artist community, has a bohemian character.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F2tUiLH8BVc/XMuaDNWQVII/AAAAAAAALfw/se3eMj7R95U38v_K9E6CUWal5CZRVjq4ACEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC06739.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F2tUiLH8BVc/XMuaDNWQVII/AAAAAAAALfw/se3eMj7R95U38v_K9E6CUWal5CZRVjq4ACEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06739.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Jerome is built on a steep hill)</td></tr>
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We walked many streets that rose steeply up the hillside and found the Flatiron, a tour-book suggested lunch spot. Just four tables and a short counter alongside the kitchen
filled the room. A few people seemed to know one another and conversation covered events around town, current creative projects, and personal stories about friends and family. In such a small place, privacy was impossible so I enjoyed overhearing the others' chats...and the food was good too!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a4OyaxtKo6I/XMuaCSsjNZI/AAAAAAAALfs/eFVKh-B5HEo7_XzjK1Kpj1CGcbi3QYkKQCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC06723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a4OyaxtKo6I/XMuaCSsjNZI/AAAAAAAALfs/eFVKh-B5HEo7_XzjK1Kpj1CGcbi3QYkKQCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06723.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The old western town of Jerome)</td></tr>
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I was excited about our final Native American location, the Palatki Heritage Site. Reservations were required, so I had called the previous day. During miles of driving through inhospitable terrain, we were surprised that motorhome campsites were filled on these desolate dirt roads. In contrast, when we came upon Palatki, beautiful red rocks and lush green foliage were a welcome relief.<br />
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As part of a small group, we were directed up red rock stairways to the largely unimproved cliff dwelling where a docent met us. This dwelling had had 9 rooms and
housed about 40 people. To our amazement, we learned that the entire extended community here eventually grew to 8000 or 10,000 people!<br />
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The possibility that the community outgrew this location may be one reason why it left the area. When the docent showed us the small size of the foods that grew here, we knew that such a large community would need a lot of good farmland.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cT4UJlq7ITs/XMzTzwwRQ8I/AAAAAAAALhE/6QAuXSG4Z_8x84rD-RYq2o05FASFqVBIQCLcBGAs/s1600/DSC06779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cT4UJlq7ITs/XMzTzwwRQ8I/AAAAAAAALhE/6QAuXSG4Z_8x84rD-RYq2o05FASFqVBIQCLcBGAs/s320/DSC06779.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Palatki's cliff dwelling)</td></tr>
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From the cliff dwelling, we
walked back down and up to a different cliff area where a docent showed us a grotto and petroglyphs. The oldest human
marks here are lines made about 10,000 years ago. Other drawings are about 1000 years old.<br />
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The docent pointed out diamond markings that represented a
snake. Drawings blackened by fire are thought to be the creation story. The docent admitted that experts do a lot of guesswork when they try to identify the drawings' meanings.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PxFHZYu74PU/XMuaJz90ELI/AAAAAAAALgA/uu41uwZasiYAIHpT_nM2tgViAZmaL5k6QCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC06816.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PxFHZYu74PU/XMuaJz90ELI/AAAAAAAALgA/uu41uwZasiYAIHpT_nM2tgViAZmaL5k6QCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06816.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Blackened drawings are possibly the creation story)</td></tr>
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In the early 1920s, a homesteader came
to this property, built a house and planted an orchard. Even today, some of the
trees still produce apples, pears, apricots, and quince. Small streams and the sudden heavy thunderstorms brought water to the communities, but enough for fruit trees to grow for 100 years? The docent said, "This summer I want to taste a quince."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N_7lABX_Dnk/XMuaKztP9cI/AAAAAAAALgQ/-iV_36R_GGA7IkjicFWHNiiqfCqIBJqjACEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC06818.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N_7lABX_Dnk/XMuaKztP9cI/AAAAAAAALgQ/-iV_36R_GGA7IkjicFWHNiiqfCqIBJqjACEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06818.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Petroglyphs at Palatki)</td></tr>
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Before we left Sedona for our next lodging in Oak Creek Canyon, we had one more place to visit, Red Rock State Park. When we drove to the park's entrance station, the attendant told us, “This is a hiking park, not a driving park.” Perfect!<br />
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Bill had mapped out a 4-mile
perimeter route that covered most of the park. Like so many trails,
these were red sandy dirt with few rocks and no roots to trip over. Switchbacks and occasional stone steps made the hiking easy.
Alongside of the trails, I saw numerous wildflowers in the morning
sun, as well as a great variety of evergreens and desert plants. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N4E6_dYlVKQ/XMuaOeJtdJI/AAAAAAAALgQ/y68pEeBZpx0mO4piWAbPjHr3MJ_zt3yiQCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC06838.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N4E6_dYlVKQ/XMuaOeJtdJI/AAAAAAAALgQ/y68pEeBZpx0mO4piWAbPjHr3MJ_zt3yiQCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06838.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Northeasterners like me crave smooth trails like this one at Red Rock State Park)</td></tr>
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We reached a summit called the Eagle's
Nest where we could see now-familiar mountains and rock formations in the
distance. A side trail led us to
the House of Apache Fires, built in the 1940s by a TWA airlines
executive and his wife. Even though the house was fenced off, we
could see enough to imagine how the owners would have entertained
celebrities and wealthy friends on this stunning promontory with its
patio barbecue and terraces. Another trail took us to the green grasses and trees bordering the creek and to a bridge back to the parking lot.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bLN7XJr_va0/XMuaRWMZ7JI/AAAAAAAALfo/4hxOEi0D1r8uxQhD7Cf__az0VYeb-YMPACEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC06848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bLN7XJr_va0/XMuaRWMZ7JI/AAAAAAAALfo/4hxOEi0D1r8uxQhD7Cf__az0VYeb-YMPACEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06848.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Red Rock State Park, Sedona)</td></tr>
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I was thrilled with our little place in Oak Creek canyon, with its tiny balcony looking down on the creek and views of surrounding canyon walls. When I asked the owner about hiking the West Fork of Oak Creek Trail, he emphasized a few times that we would not find parking at the trailhead unless we went very early. "What do you mean by early?" I asked. "8:00?" "8:00 at the latest," he said. The next morning, we were out of the
house by 7:15 and on the trail at 7:25. We had no problem finding parking.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b2fIwrP4-tQ/XMuaUeBGFwI/AAAAAAAALgc/lJLo27K4be4IBzZ0Sfjf-rMyX9MXmVosQCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC06899.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b2fIwrP4-tQ/XMuaUeBGFwI/AAAAAAAALgc/lJLo27K4be4IBzZ0Sfjf-rMyX9MXmVosQCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06899.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Stunning views in Oak Creek Canyon)</td></tr>
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The 3.3 mile trail with its 13 stream
crossings would take us to a canyon pool, the end of the maintained
trail. When we began, the sun had not yet risen over the top of the canyon walls. After a while, it filtered down to the creek, lighting up the rock and sparkling on the water.<br />
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Every bend in the trail offered a new view. White sandy limestone beaches edged the creek's curves and wildflowers grew in the woods. A small
white butterfly with orange on the edges of its wings fluttered as it
settled on a flower.<br />
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When the trail became more rugged, we knew we must be near the pool. Towering red rock encircled the small water body. I took my boots off
and sat on a rock with my feet in the water. I wondered how long ago this water had had ice in it -- my ankles ached with cold!</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tzbvo21CrRg/XMuaXOsKYVI/AAAAAAAALf4/soGlY4XT0GkstzOLn9qSmISMlGuJ5Pp_QCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC06929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tzbvo21CrRg/XMuaXOsKYVI/AAAAAAAALf4/soGlY4XT0GkstzOLn9qSmISMlGuJ5Pp_QCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06929.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Fascinating cliff formations in Oak Creek Canyon)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The next day we were up and out early again, heading to the South
Rim of the Grand Canyon. Some years ago, we had visited the North Rim. We had been satisfied with our Grand
Canyon experience. The North Rim was gorgeous. Still, with the
South Rim only an hour and a half drive away, we figured we should check it out.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_82Pgd67s7c/XMuaZ_pCmEI/AAAAAAAALgg/RBaNfby_n9Yhz2PKkV2012AAc8TWySl0wCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC06933.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_82Pgd67s7c/XMuaZ_pCmEI/AAAAAAAALgg/RBaNfby_n9Yhz2PKkV2012AAc8TWySl0wCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06933.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Grand Canyon near and far)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We were struck by the magnificence of
the canyon, as far as the eye could see. We walked to the next
overlook and then alternated between walking and
taking the shuttle. The canyon from the south rim was so vast that
the view varied little from point to point.
</div>
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l1O7Uexl2ug/XMuaa7dBKBI/AAAAAAAALgE/xUsj8IjJYYMAzapzyVkLPKgjoTtM-nImACEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC06965.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l1O7Uexl2ug/XMuaa7dBKBI/AAAAAAAALgE/xUsj8IjJYYMAzapzyVkLPKgjoTtM-nImACEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06965.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A portion of the Colorado River winds through the canyon)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
We walked a short section of the famous
Bright Angel trail that would eventually lead to the canyon floor. The trail begins with numerous switchbacks as it descends the steep terrain. <br />
<br />
Back on the rim, we could see the Colorado River and its rapids far below and deep in the rocks. The Colorado River is barely visible from the North Rim, so I had looked forward to seeing it here. Visiting both rims gave us a greater sense of the Grand Canyon's magnificence. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_G0w6iEv9Zw/XMuabhiF-SI/AAAAAAAALgI/xGMoA_-SVwUAE8DfWmODdgtnF-uI2i61ACEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC06966.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_G0w6iEv9Zw/XMuabhiF-SI/AAAAAAAALgI/xGMoA_-SVwUAE8DfWmODdgtnF-uI2i61ACEwYBhgL/s320/DSC06966.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Switchbacks on the Bright Angel Trail)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On our last day, we did not have
to get up and out early. It was nice to turn on our gas faux woodstove and move slowly into the day.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
By mid-morning, I decided to hike the
Harding Springs trail that would go up the side of the canyon to the
top of the rock. The short trail had the usual switchbacks, a steady but not awfully strenuous
uphill, and views along the way. Weather was cool “sweater”
weather, perfect for hiking.<br />
<br />
In only 30 minutes, I reached a summit
meadow. I glanced around hoping to see elk or deer, but I was alone. I continued to a rocky overlook where I admired Oak Creek Canyon views both north and south. I shouted across the valley, hoping for an echo, but my voice did not come back to me. I was thrilled to fit this hike in on our final day. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--ADA2Rrny2U/XMuaet-fzNI/AAAAAAAALgU/d7Y6ncClmbYBSP0Tx61zkIl0fAxwtdtJQCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC07005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--ADA2Rrny2U/XMuaet-fzNI/AAAAAAAALgU/d7Y6ncClmbYBSP0Tx61zkIl0fAxwtdtJQCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC07005.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Indian Garden in Sedona)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
When I returned to our lodging, Bill had decided that we would take a drive back through Sedona and eat at the Indian Garden Market and
Cafe where we had stopped a few days earlier. Indian Garden is surrounded by mountains and has a backyard patio under the trees. What
an oasis!<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Back at our lodging as evening fell, brilliant stars filled the sky above the creek. Then the 2/3 moon came up
over the mountain top and outshone the stars.<br />
<br />
In the morning, we would be out early to begin our drive back to Phoenix airport and home.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-64370214848965493302019-03-20T11:30:00.002-04:002019-03-20T11:30:52.400-04:00Albany Symphony in Washington, DC, 2018<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
I partially wrote this post last April. Then my elderly parents' crises took my focus and I didn't finish it. When I looked back, I decided this trip was too unique to let go. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T0m-iAsI2I4/XIau3VahlOI/AAAAAAAALc8/Hml4A52LCWIalakZgOQkHvMxf6bKT_lAQCLcBGAs/s1600/ASO%2Bpostetr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T0m-iAsI2I4/XIau3VahlOI/AAAAAAAALc8/Hml4A52LCWIalakZgOQkHvMxf6bKT_lAQCLcBGAs/s320/ASO%2Bpostetr.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
"Albany Symphony is going play in Washington, DC," Bill said.<br />
"Oh? Cool," I said.<br />
A couple of weeks later, out of the blue, he said, "The SHIFT festival looks kind of interesting."<br />
"The what?" I said. <br />
"You know. Albany Symphony." <br />
Disconnected snippets often start more promising conversation at our house and, when talk evolved into a concrete plan to join the ASO's trip to DC, I had the dates on the calendar in a second!<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fgm5CHuccJY/XH3m-s7EEaI/AAAAAAAALb4/Arn-F80VsOQRRiWIYlyAT-P-HYdLv9_6gCLcBGAs/s1600/ep.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fgm5CHuccJY/XH3m-s7EEaI/AAAAAAAALb4/Arn-F80VsOQRRiWIYlyAT-P-HYdLv9_6gCLcBGAs/s320/ep.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Cherry blossoms at peak)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I looked up SHIFT, figuring it was an acronym. I was wrong. Instead the word, all upper case, was being used in its conventional sense as a verb. We were<i> to shift</i> towards a new way of thinking about orchestras as community outreach, performing beyond the concert hall through innovation, new ideas, new music as well as old, and meeting the public in new ways.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XchoJUJz-So/Wt561aOWr9I/AAAAAAAALGA/VCoHs9rbyEcoQ10z0XopnN69Pga_GaEYACEwYBhgL/s1600/ab%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XchoJUJz-So/Wt561aOWr9I/AAAAAAAALGA/VCoHs9rbyEcoQ10z0XopnN69Pga_GaEYACEwYBhgL/s320/ab%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The University Club)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The Albany Symphony Orchestra, with David Alan Miller as director and conductor, had been chosen to be part of the week-long festival because of its innovative work with living American composers and because of projects such as its<span class="st"> barge journey on the<i> </i>Erie Canal when the ASO performed free concerts in seven canal communities<wbr></wbr>. </span><br />
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<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7SQPA16nsio/Wt58lV2L6KI/AAAAAAAALGU/81oICaomfcUIU-APva0-ACOaMmewgVtCgCLcBGAs/s1600/ae.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7SQPA16nsio/Wt58lV2L6KI/AAAAAAAALGU/81oICaomfcUIU-APva0-ACOaMmewgVtCgCLcBGAs/s320/ae.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Four orchestras from across the country were part of SHIFT)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Symphony tour planners scheduled the opportunity for fans and supporters to attend three concerts, take advantage of guided
sightseeing, and see the cherry blossoms, with two overnights at the University Club. Thirty-five of us rode a coach bus, ready for the adventure.<br />
<br />
After a few minutes to settle in after our arrival, Bill and I, and a few others, boarded the bus again to watch a short, and our first, musical presentation at the Kennedy Center's Millennial Stage. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dBLt5Dgdnow/Wt561izsO3I/AAAAAAAALFY/aDzpEs-4lNQMWpZZxfJYlzZHvPnRyVK2gCEwYBhgL/s1600/af.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dBLt5Dgdnow/Wt561izsO3I/AAAAAAAALFY/aDzpEs-4lNQMWpZZxfJYlzZHvPnRyVK2gCEwYBhgL/s320/af.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Kennedy Center's large concert hall)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
While some from our group chose to skip the Millennial stage presentation in favor of eating a relaxing hotel or restaurant meal, Bill and I, determined not to miss anything, had dinner in the Kennedy Center cafeteria. The food was excellent, with a bird's-eye view of
the city as well. <br />
<br />
The rest of our group joined us at the main hall in the evening with plenty of time to look around. I was interested to learn that plans to build the Kennedy Center began in 1950, although the first performance did not take place until 1971. The dramatic high-tech acoustical canopy was added in 1997. Organ pipes gleamed at the back of the stage, and crystal chandeliers shone overhead.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t0yDreA2274/XIVlaPMgy8I/AAAAAAAALcE/aSPr5OcSZswsM4OJ8lsbbVe9oeVrdCHSwCLcBGAs/s1600/David-Alan-Miller-Albany-Symphony-Tuba-Concerto-Tony-Hitchcock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="397" data-original-width="450" height="282" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t0yDreA2274/XIVlaPMgy8I/AAAAAAAALcE/aSPr5OcSZswsM4OJ8lsbbVe9oeVrdCHSwCLcBGAs/s320/David-Alan-Miller-Albany-Symphony-Tuba-Concerto-Tony-Hitchcock.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">( David Alan Miller conducts while Carol Jantsch solos in a sparkling mermaid-style gown)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
The theme for the ASO concert was "The River Runs Through Us." Weeks prior to the festival, Bill had been playing recordings of the tuba concerto, <i>Reflections on the Mississippi</i> by Michael Daugherty. He was particularly attracted to this piece. The program also included Joan Tower's <i>Still/Rapids</i>, Dorothy Chang's <i>The Mighty Erie Canal</i>, and Michael Torke's <i>Three Manhattan Bridges.</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8688b4z5d5E/XIWhrB-pxlI/AAAAAAAALcc/VVEenfYS3f0sF0dly7w8u3L2FapyZsbxACLcBGAs/s1600/ec.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8688b4z5d5E/XIWhrB-pxlI/AAAAAAAALcc/VVEenfYS3f0sF0dly7w8u3L2FapyZsbxACLcBGAs/s320/ec.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Lavender globe lights on the Library steps)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
Carol Jantsch's performance as tubaist was riveting with tones and beauty we had not imagined. Although the tuba had a harness, just wielding such an instrument seemed a feat.<br />
<br />
I was completely smitten by <i>The Mighty Erie Canal</i> which featured a children's chorus with the orchestra. The music was wonderfully melodic with lyrics both educational and fun. Besides their perfect harmony, the children sang with a serious musicianship.<br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vNT8CbmlADo/Wt562hAnF9I/AAAAAAAALF4/d6OA85RWz4MhqKHGHJh14bnANUuyAA9bgCEwYBhgL/s1600/ak.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vNT8CbmlADo/Wt562hAnF9I/AAAAAAAALF4/d6OA85RWz4MhqKHGHJh14bnANUuyAA9bgCEwYBhgL/s320/ak.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Great Hall in the Library of Congress)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
The next day promised to be 70 degrees and sunny, a far cry from April at home. Cultural outings lay before us, beginning with a drive and
short walk to the Library of Congress. With a private guide, we
learned about the library's beautiful architecture and statuary, its collection, and how the
library is used today.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ggygEytzybg/Wt565LoxU1I/AAAAAAAALGA/iaIFf9Au4tIeJsnlISG8ScHYIIi4mLXXwCEwYBhgL/s1600/an.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ggygEytzybg/Wt565LoxU1I/AAAAAAAALGA/iaIFf9Au4tIeJsnlISG8ScHYIIi4mLXXwCEwYBhgL/s320/an.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">( The Reading Room)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I can't resist sharing this list with you:<br />
With an astounding 838 <i>miles</i> of bookshelves, the library contains more than 38 million books and other printed materials, 3.6 million
recordings, 14 million photographs, 5.5 million maps, 8.1 million pieces
of sheet music and 70 million manuscripts, 5,711 printed previous to the year 1501, and 122,810,430 items in special collections!!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y1qX9XAqDzU/Wt57n9ZGtlI/AAAAAAAALGI/Ksa8OcoUFbYn82wxoQUol71VkgOfxzSBgCLcBGAs/s1600/ao.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y1qX9XAqDzU/Wt57n9ZGtlI/AAAAAAAALGI/Ksa8OcoUFbYn82wxoQUol71VkgOfxzSBgCLcBGAs/s320/ao.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Brahms Violin Concerto manuscript)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
With the help of Congressman Paul Tonko's office, tour planners provided us with
a special showing in the library's Music Division. The music librarians had studied the ASO's concert season and had created a collection of original composition manuscripts coordinating with works the ASO would perform this year, complete with docents behind each glass-covered case to answer our questions.<br />
<br />
I was delighted to see the manuscript of Brahms'<i> Violin
Concerto in D</i>, with his penciled edits and cross-outs. Joseph Joachim, who had premiered the piece as violinist, had put his notations in the manuscript with red ink! How fascinating to see work in progress on such a revered piece of music. Also on display were Gershwin's <i>Rhapsody in Blue </i>and the Joan Tower piece we had heard the night before. In addition, a few Stradivarius and Amati violins hung in a wall cabinet.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jajuwk5P2lo/XIWdewDyUiI/AAAAAAAALcQ/oWFZKcpv7r0Fa5M6WFuDZ4_aw09S-MoOwCLcBGAs/s1600/ct000725.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="378" data-original-width="680" height="177" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jajuwk5P2lo/XIWdewDyUiI/AAAAAAAALcQ/oWFZKcpv7r0Fa5M6WFuDZ4_aw09S-MoOwCLcBGAs/s320/ct000725.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(the World in 1507)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Bill and I took advantage of free time to explore Thomas Jefferson's personal collection and to re-visit the famous 1507 Waldseemuller map. Both had been part of our initial guided walk through the library. The map, which included the latest 16th-century information from Amerigo Vespucci's voyages, had been revolutionary in its time. <br />
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<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yBhVI8mUtYo/XIWiNdy0MkI/AAAAAAAALck/87DnHYtKJ6Y4aHcpZZOPojUvedxe45kQACLcBGAs/s1600/ez%2B%2BUS%2BCapitol%252C%2Bduring%2BShift%2BFestival%2Bwith%2BAlbany%2BSymphony%252C%2BApril%2B2018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yBhVI8mUtYo/XIWiNdy0MkI/AAAAAAAALck/87DnHYtKJ6Y4aHcpZZOPojUvedxe45kQACLcBGAs/s320/ez%2B%2BUS%2BCapitol%252C%2Bduring%2BShift%2BFestival%2Bwith%2BAlbany%2BSymphony%252C%2BApril%2B2018.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(a brilliant garden of tulips in front of the Capitol)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<br />
We stepped outside into the spring weather, where flowers bloomed everywhere. I couldn't stop admiring them, but I was also hungry. The tour included lunch at Old Ebbitt Grill, Washington's oldest saloon. Many famous people, including at least five 19th and 20th-century presidents, considered this their favorite DC restaurant. We had a hearty and delicious three-course meal that would carry us through the rest of the day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-78mh3BUbI9w/XIWmfauKcwI/AAAAAAAALcw/ppFEknmXXpUpKzjds25JCuE-EHRlpEo2ACLcBGAs/s1600/eh.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-78mh3BUbI9w/XIWmfauKcwI/AAAAAAAALcw/ppFEknmXXpUpKzjds25JCuE-EHRlpEo2ACLcBGAs/s320/eh.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(a canopy of cherry blossoms)</td></tr>
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A visit to the National Portrait Gallery, to see the newly hung Barack and Michelle Obama portraits, was next on the schedule. I joined with others in the hope of a visit to the Tidal Basin to see the cherry blossoms. After a show of hands, Albany Symphony development director, Geoff Miller, took a group of us to see the cherry trees,
while executive director, Anna Kuwabara, led others to the Portrait Gallery. A few people chose to go back to the hotel. We were impressed that every request was accommodated.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WNpGKOJENUU/Wt56_VC468I/AAAAAAAALF0/u_eBbrSj5MYNL4utZVqYmww8nvIlGDpygCEwYBhgL/s1600/aua.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1110" data-original-width="1600" height="222" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WNpGKOJENUU/Wt56_VC468I/AAAAAAAALF0/u_eBbrSj5MYNL4utZVqYmww8nvIlGDpygCEwYBhgL/s320/aua.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Washington Monument across the Basin)</td></tr>
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Bill and I walked along the Basin and up to the Jefferson Memorial, admiring the cherry blossoms, watching the people, and taking pictures. What a complement this stroll by the petal-strewn water was to the water-themed concert of the previous night!<br />
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After just a short time back at the University Club, we were on the bus again for a Dogs of Desire performance, our third and final musical event of the trip. As Albany Symphony's resident new music ensemble, The Dogs of Desire would perform at the alternative arts space, Blind Whino in Southwest DC. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Long-dead church fathers must be rolling over in their graves)</td></tr>
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The tour schedule read that the Dogs of Desire has "the power of a rock band, the sophistication of a classical chamber orchestra, exploring all that is wild and wonderful in American pop culture, with dazzling multimedia works and freewheeling, fabulous creations and collaborations." Although the 18-musician Dogs had been a branch of the ASO for a long time, we had never heard them play. We went to this concert with open ears and minds.<br />
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Dazzling multi-media and freewheeling fabulous creations for sure! The music was loud and lights flashed in colors through the darkness...and we liked almost every piece on the program. I especially enjoyed watching the keyboardist who sometimes leaned on the keys with the force of his entire arm and sometimes played gentle melodies. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Dogs of Desire at Blind Whino)</td></tr>
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When we stepped outside of Blind Whino after the show, the evening air felt comfortable. True to food options always being a step ahead of our thoughts, tour manager Sophie Moss arrived with dozens of cupcakes from the gourmet Georgetown Cupcakes just as I wished for a snack! We ate them under the trees as we waited for the final drive of the evening.<br />
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This time we were not picked up by our bus, but got on a trolley for a ride through the city at night. While the air felt suddenly chilly, I wouldn't consider pulling the plastic blinds to keep out the wind if they might obscure the views! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Zg7qXtYC9qg/XIcK6D_39vI/AAAAAAAALdU/RRf_3K9OyC48XB2_21s8IKH9Urp2YgS9QCLcBGAs/s1600/ew%2BLincoln%2Bmemorial.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1060" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Zg7qXtYC9qg/XIcK6D_39vI/AAAAAAAALdU/RRf_3K9OyC48XB2_21s8IKH9Urp2YgS9QCLcBGAs/s320/ew%2BLincoln%2Bmemorial.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Lincoln Memorial)</td></tr>
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At the Mall, we got off the trolley and walked along the reflecting pool, past the Lincoln Memorial to the Vietnam Memorial. Each location had a new majesty in the darkness. And finally, we ended our fabulous eventful day at the University Club.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Washington Monument and reflecting pool)</td></tr>
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But our adventure wasn't over yet! We were up and out the next morning for a short tour of the U.S. Capitol. With Congress in session, we had limited access. We spent quite a bit of time in the rotunda area and then had the requisite photo on the Capitol steps with Representative Paul Tonko.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Inside the Capitol Dome)</td></tr>
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On the bus ride north to Albany, we watched the landscape change from flowering trees to the browns of a delayed spring in Upstate New York. I faced a demanding week of rehearsals and concerts for my own musical ensembles. What better way to be inspired than to have been part of a festival tour such as this?Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-64750607693062413622019-02-25T18:39:00.000-05:002019-02-25T18:49:37.150-05:00Two Events on Gray Days<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e-y5a7uxr1s/XHIG4Vtqw_I/AAAAAAAALaM/7gu19WbMs3AkAZEulsnX2cCW_CafXo-7gCLcBGAs/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1043" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e-y5a7uxr1s/XHIG4Vtqw_I/AAAAAAAALaM/7gu19WbMs3AkAZEulsnX2cCW_CafXo-7gCLcBGAs/s320/1.jpg" width="208" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Capitol dome made from Legos)</td></tr>
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Aren't Legos the best toys? Lego interlocking blocks were first popularized in 1958 but took a while to cross over from Denmark. They were a big deal when my kids were young. The children loved Legos and I did too.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RfWBifMLI0E/XHIHAWF5Z-I/AAAAAAAALaw/l1SSn-C6QH82FfUgoKrx4NUvjzX1Vq_yQCLcBGAs/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1081" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RfWBifMLI0E/XHIHAWF5Z-I/AAAAAAAALaw/l1SSn-C6QH82FfUgoKrx4NUvjzX1Vq_yQCLcBGAs/s320/2.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Meredith, age 2 1/2, making what she called a "blue city," 1987)</td></tr>
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When I learned that Crossgates Mall planned to feature a Lego display, I penciled the event on my calendar. I've seen large Lego constructions in New York City, but this was just four miles from my home. I made a point of going to the mall when it arrived.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qolsFZAbXEI/XHIHB5wUNjI/AAAAAAAALa0/u8FuvBF3dz02MOkIUgEBXe__4CBKEYHTgCLcBGAs/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1600" height="216" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qolsFZAbXEI/XHIHB5wUNjI/AAAAAAAALa0/u8FuvBF3dz02MOkIUgEBXe__4CBKEYHTgCLcBGAs/s320/3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Thomas's Lego city, 1991)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5XwomW9fsHQ/XHIHBzm_GOI/AAAAAAAALa4/IYDWz47Py68UMTLsM2FUx3YoJ3iowVyNgCLcBGAs/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1579" data-original-width="1118" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5XwomW9fsHQ/XHIHBzm_GOI/AAAAAAAALa4/IYDWz47Py68UMTLsM2FUx3YoJ3iowVyNgCLcBGAs/s320/4.jpg" width="226" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Thomas with a Christmas project, constructing a new Lego set, age 10)</td></tr>
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Planned to coincide with the school winter vacation, The Lego Americana Roadshow featured American icons. I picked up a map of the mall with each Lego location numbered with a check box alongside. Children could check the boxes indicating that they had seen the pictured models, then return a fully-checked map to the mall's Lego store for a small prize.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ir-CjW9ctVg/XHIHCkZ21jI/AAAAAAAALbA/9CRvp42AHywp9QucNGaS7M1cWKnRgo-yACLcBGAs/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ir-CjW9ctVg/XHIHCkZ21jI/AAAAAAAALbA/9CRvp42AHywp9QucNGaS7M1cWKnRgo-yACLcBGAs/s320/5.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Statue of Liberty in full detail)</td></tr>
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The first construction I saw was the Liberty Bell. Then I passed the White House, the Supreme Court, and the Lincoln Memorial. The detail of the statues and carvings on these buildings was impressive, all made with Lego blocks. I heard parents telling their kids about the buildings and their history. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ydXmQv1BEI4/XHIHDHNoA3I/AAAAAAAALbE/YSr9Ed2pEg4pE6U2IJkPjkkR8Ps9Re5-wCLcBGAs/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ydXmQv1BEI4/XHIHDHNoA3I/AAAAAAAALbE/YSr9Ed2pEg4pE6U2IJkPjkkR8Ps9Re5-wCLcBGAs/s320/6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Capitol's wings and branches look sprawling in miniature)</td></tr>
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The Capitol Building was by far the most remarkable with its large ornate dome. In size alone, it outdid the others. According to the accompanying sign, the U.S. Capitol took a team of eight builders 1700 hours to complete! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KfV_bPFziC8/XHIHDhwmoPI/AAAAAAAALbI/E_b_dk8RHpMZsrC8O4GhWuWKUQ6T4YIYACLcBGAs/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KfV_bPFziC8/XHIHDhwmoPI/AAAAAAAALbI/E_b_dk8RHpMZsrC8O4GhWuWKUQ6T4YIYACLcBGAs/s320/7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Lego people on a ski trip...and a battle?)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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A few dioramas were displayed in large glass cases. I liked the winter scene with skiers on a chairlift going up a mountain. But what were those guys in the background with guns doing?? A group of children and a couple of parents stood by. One of them said that this was from the Lego Movie. I moved on.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Hands-on fun for kids)</td></tr>
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In one of the large open areas of the mall, children played and created their own Lego models. This was a popular spot. I checked out all the play options. I particularly liked the racing ramp. Kids built cars at a nearby table and then ran them down the track. I saw no sharing problems; everyone appeared to be having a good time.<br />
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The federal buildings had been built with mostly light-colored Legos. Smaller buildings, such as Independence Hall in Philadelphia with its Colonial red brick design and white trim, were a refreshing change. I admired the detailed window detail, and could imagine piecing together blocks to fit the 18th-century design. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xkVBp3vODiE/XHIG4xjzFNI/AAAAAAAALaU/zIMO4BadFDkKTx_pCPU1qpRB4fZIIAnKACLcBGAs/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xkVBp3vODiE/XHIG4xjzFNI/AAAAAAAALaU/zIMO4BadFDkKTx_pCPU1qpRB4fZIIAnKACLcBGAs/s320/10.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Independence Hall)</td></tr>
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I wondered how many Lego blocks these constructions required. Next to one model, I came upon a small kiosk where kids could guess the number, write it on a paper, and drop the paper in a slot box. I wouldn't have the faintest idea how many Lego blocks would be in the Capitol! I heard one boy say 10,000. I would guess more.<br />
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I loved seeing Boston's Old North Church. It didn't draw as much attention as the bigger buildings that children would instantly recognize, but those who wanted to check all the boxes would find it. The sign read that it took three master Lego builders only 200 hours to make this wonderful model with its fine steeple. Five 40-hour weeks with three people working continuously still sounded like a lot to me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-96YMFnr1UaE/XHIG5NugToI/AAAAAAAALaY/oIjhIJ_O_zkfeiz-InlcxPw-27ltXycSQCLcBGAs/s1600/12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1144" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-96YMFnr1UaE/XHIG5NugToI/AAAAAAAALaY/oIjhIJ_O_zkfeiz-InlcxPw-27ltXycSQCLcBGAs/s320/12.jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Boston's Old North Church)</td></tr>
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On another February day, in an entirely different venue, I went to "Cathedral in Bloom," a flower show at the Episcopal Cathedral of All Saints in downtown Albany. The flower show has been at the State Museum for years. This year, due to renovations at the museum, the show took place at the Cathedral.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V5zrTAKIEfQ/XHIG5y-PGJI/AAAAAAAALac/EwyLYYi68tozoJYq0ftOjW0xZbXuPNtOACLcBGAs/s1600/13.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1047" data-original-width="1600" height="209" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V5zrTAKIEfQ/XHIG5y-PGJI/AAAAAAAALac/EwyLYYi68tozoJYq0ftOjW0xZbXuPNtOACLcBGAs/s320/13.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(the sale table is a bounty of color against the gray stone of the Cathedral)</td></tr>
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My friend, Karen, an Albany native whose interests are boundless, joined me for this outing. Bright bouquets in pots greeted us as we entered the building. Many of the floral displays were clearly meant to appeal to wedding planners. We could imagine a bridal couple under an archway made of red roses, or having dinner at tables festooned with white blossoms. Although we loved seeing the flowers, we had also timed our visit to include a tour of the Cathedral itself. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-njgYiYbK0Pk/XHIG6n-n7GI/AAAAAAAALag/sSL3GSoD5QgTLKmmVj0e62q2ZHPrKqUKwCLcBGAs/s1600/14.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-njgYiYbK0Pk/XHIG6n-n7GI/AAAAAAAALag/sSL3GSoD5QgTLKmmVj0e62q2ZHPrKqUKwCLcBGAs/s320/14.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Florists perfectly decorated the lovely Baptistery doors)</td></tr>
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Many wealthy donors, famous architects, and stone carvers were instrumental in the construction of the cathedral from its beginning in 1884. The plan was to build this first American Episcopal cathedral in an English Gothic style, paying tribute to its Church of England roots. The original design was grandiose, but today less than half of the cathedral is actually finished. Much of the remainder is still called "temporary," despite the many large rose windows, delicate stained glass, intricate wood and stone carvings, and an apparent permanence these past 130 years.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0STVPXPnyT0/XHIG8kLb-9I/AAAAAAAALak/UPUEQ8npDLU8ZFdqgMrQ_Fmvj04DquZnwCLcBGAs/s1600/15.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0STVPXPnyT0/XHIG8kLb-9I/AAAAAAAALak/UPUEQ8npDLU8ZFdqgMrQ_Fmvj04DquZnwCLcBGAs/s320/15.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Tiny pipes just a couple of inches high in lower left rise to large wooden pipes in two "attic" chambers on both sides of the choir area)</td></tr>
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The eastern end of the cathedral, the choir, is the only fully completed part of the building, thanks to a 1902 influx of cash from J. Pierpont Morgan. I was drawn to this area, since it is the home to the musical part of the cathedral. In fact, I have a tradition of coming here at Christmas to hear the Cathedral's renowned Men and Boys Choir. The choir performs the Nine Lessons and Carols at Christmastime. With the Anglican pageantry and incense, I feel transported to the famous equivalent of this service at King's College in Cambridge, England.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JM8V_JWESv0/XHIG_AC0wfI/AAAAAAAALas/Ps_IZ2bBAtYC-VrtV24o-_evUcP2-B6sgCLcBGAs/s1600/16.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JM8V_JWESv0/XHIG_AC0wfI/AAAAAAAALas/Ps_IZ2bBAtYC-VrtV24o-_evUcP2-B6sgCLcBGAs/s320/16.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The massive organ)</td></tr>
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It takes a talented organist to handle the four keyboards, innumerable stops, couplers, foot pedals, and the additional console at the other end of the cathedral! Two hands and two feet must be active all the time to make music flow through the 4000 pipes. And three mirrors above the organ let the organist know what is going on around him at all times. Talk about multi-tasking! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L-7fwKqMh8E/XHIG9s8SGCI/AAAAAAAALao/2xoTiuwMjqkBu_S_95GlagRkBc9fF0XuQCLcBGAs/s1600/17.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L-7fwKqMh8E/XHIG9s8SGCI/AAAAAAAALao/2xoTiuwMjqkBu_S_95GlagRkBc9fF0XuQCLcBGAs/s320/17.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Flemish Renaissance carving from 1622)</td></tr>
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I was interested to learn that the misericords (seats for clergy who may need a rest during a long service) in the choir loft, were not only imported from Brugges, Belgium, and 400 years old, but were a gift from Spencer Trask, of Yaddo fame in Saratoga Springs.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u5Ep7uzsPdw/XHIHBmTicPI/AAAAAAAALa8/kF56V8P6Be4WYRDuvXO6TZMBaOIeHFArQCLcBGAs/s1600/18.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u5Ep7uzsPdw/XHIHBmTicPI/AAAAAAAALa8/kF56V8P6Be4WYRDuvXO6TZMBaOIeHFArQCLcBGAs/s320/18.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(a rose swag draping from the pulpit)</td></tr>
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Before we left, Karen and I perused the items for sale, sniffed the Harney & Sons specially-made "Cathedral in Bloom" tea, and considered the tins of flower seeds. In the end, I bought a bouquet of yellow tulips to brighten my kitchen on this gray February day. Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-28787405309681921642019-01-30T20:20:00.000-05:002019-01-30T20:20:29.953-05:00Bennett Hill: Winter<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2VoOVeN4D7E/XE5tbOS01mI/AAAAAAAALYc/jLDUJs5AsGgtRkmXtnqTHRpaJMOOX2RegCLcBGAs/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1187" data-original-width="1600" height="237" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2VoOVeN4D7E/XE5tbOS01mI/AAAAAAAALYc/jLDUJs5AsGgtRkmXtnqTHRpaJMOOX2RegCLcBGAs/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Walking alongside this farm is a beautiful introduction to the trails at Bennett Hill.)</td></tr>
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In Spring 2017, I promised you that I would follow the seasons at Bennett Hill, a beautiful hiking spot not far from my Albany home. I was inspired by Jackie Donnelly's ongoing in-depth study of her beloved nature spot, Moreau Lake State Park, which she features often in her blog: https://saratogawoodswaters.blogspot.com.<br />
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However, after spring and summer, I had let the idea go, but now I'm back and it's winter! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-j20IWkhnkag/XE5tfcYHxTI/AAAAAAAALZA/Iovy2n3-GrAUo85sM3EKAkN1VYYTD1SJQCLcBGAs/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-j20IWkhnkag/XE5tfcYHxTI/AAAAAAAALZA/Iovy2n3-GrAUo85sM3EKAkN1VYYTD1SJQCLcBGAs/s320/2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Now and then, my snowshoes barely made a dent in the packed wind-blown snow.)</td></tr>
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We received 15" of beautiful snow last week. With heavy rain in the forecast, I was itching to get out in the powder while it lasted. A perfect sunny cold Tuesday passed me by. Rain inched closer. I checked and double-checked the forecast.<br />
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On Wednesday, the rain was not supposed to arrive until mid-afternoon. I gathered up snowshoes and boots and headed out early. I felt desperate for fresh air and some exertion with beauty on the side. Bennett Hill was close enough that I hoped to drive there and do the 3-mile loop before sleet and freezing rain made an appearance.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-F3cCJQQMy3A/XE5tfzE6RLI/AAAAAAAALZE/q6y7r77i_MsuDWBHP0vIjd4OY6oK3V9jACLcBGAs/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-F3cCJQQMy3A/XE5tfzE6RLI/AAAAAAAALZE/q6y7r77i_MsuDWBHP0vIjd4OY6oK3V9jACLcBGAs/s320/3.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(You mean I have to break my own trail from now on through deep powder?)</td></tr>
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The sky was dark. Freezing rain hit my windshield as I drove the short distance. Ice creeped in from the edges and I turned on the defrost. This was not fair! It was far too early in the day for rain (according to my authority weather underground, wunderground.com). I was glad it stopped as I pulled into the small parking area at Bennett Hill.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MHXoquAZsOo/XE5tgmwO38I/AAAAAAAALZI/Dd3Ez4rXFGkc60F1qjoIBflFvMIgHtfUgCLcBGAs/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MHXoquAZsOo/XE5tgmwO38I/AAAAAAAALZI/Dd3Ez4rXFGkc60F1qjoIBflFvMIgHtfUgCLcBGAs/s320/4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(This tree was made for sitting, but I'll just admire it this time.)</td></tr>
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Wind had howled around my house the previous night and it apparently had here also. Amidst the softer snow, hard patches of trail showed where the wind had banked the snow into concrete. I didn't mind; being able to walk on top of the snow for a short stretch offered an easy, if sporadic, change from the powder.<br />
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I passed a woman coming down the trail as I was going up. We talked about the impending rain and discussed ski tracks visible alongside the snowshoe trail. Skiing here would take some skill between the trees.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HJYhaUQYTEM/XE5tg-boB0I/AAAAAAAALZM/8-fE0F8gC2k8ZV85r7-cpBg7E-sAofyzgCLcBGAs/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HJYhaUQYTEM/XE5tg-boB0I/AAAAAAAALZM/8-fE0F8gC2k8ZV85r7-cpBg7E-sAofyzgCLcBGAs/s320/5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Can't you imagine an otter sliding down the hill from the left and doing some aerials, as if on a ski jump, as he flies off to the right?)</td></tr>
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I kept a steady pace as the trail climbed. I needed some sturdy exercise. I worry that, if I turn into a slug during the winter, I won't be able to hike well in the summer, and I want to continue my hiking career for a long time. Besides, winter is one of two seasons, along with fall, when I feel at my best physically.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1i_A8TtMjB8/XE5thHTqftI/AAAAAAAALZQ/szazIQ-iYmo5iywHoVHmnpOiXosqAAMqwCLcBGAs/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1i_A8TtMjB8/XE5thHTqftI/AAAAAAAALZQ/szazIQ-iYmo5iywHoVHmnpOiXosqAAMqwCLcBGAs/s320/6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Wind has been the story of our 2018-2019 winter so far, making swirls around the trees.)</td></tr>
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Apparently, the hiking gods heard my plea for exercise, because I hadn't snowshoed too far when the tracked trail ended. Others before me had turned around and gone back. Even the ski tracks vanished into the woods. My work was cut out for me, for sure. Breaking trail in deep snow is not easy!<br />
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Suddenly, I felt alone and was reminded of all those ranger reports I read where people get hurt and are often not prepared to wait for help in the cold. This is<i> not</i> a mindset that I usually feed into. Clearly, I had been reading too many DEC reports and quickly passed off these thoughts!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FXvRvk1lqfA/XE5tiKJJr5I/AAAAAAAALZU/wOrfOa1wfJsUNoTXTPcCJWcBkyXYQAYlACLcBGAs/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FXvRvk1lqfA/XE5tiKJJr5I/AAAAAAAALZU/wOrfOa1wfJsUNoTXTPcCJWcBkyXYQAYlACLcBGAs/s320/7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(All this view needs is Santa and his reindeer crossing the sky at night: "the children were nestled all snug in their beds," "Mamma in her 'kerchief and I in my cap" )</td></tr>
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The summit of Bennett Hill is a reward in any season. I like the way the trail curves around the low vegetation to the view over the hamlet of Clarksville. In winter, Clarksville looks like a Christmas village below with streets making lines between the white, and rooftops covered in snow.<br />
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But...just as I came to the viewpoint, freezing rain pelted my face and pinged on my jacket in defiance of the forecast. In minutes, it stopped. I wasn't any the worse for wear, but, really, what's the deal, wunderground?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4iTHRak8hzs/XE5tii68BII/AAAAAAAALZY/pwi6mwvK6pU8bjCUZGxXHphzZ9cy1U0cwCLcBGAs/s1600/8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4iTHRak8hzs/XE5tii68BII/AAAAAAAALZY/pwi6mwvK6pU8bjCUZGxXHphzZ9cy1U0cwCLcBGAs/s320/8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(This summit birch tree is a favorite of mine.)</td></tr>
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I paid more attention to natural elements, taking winter pictures of the places I had photographed for my spring and summer blog posts back in 2017. I enjoyed being the first person, except for woodland animals, to make tracks in this snow. The summit was a clean white landscape, without the needles blown by the wind littering the landscape as they had farther down the hill.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gLjcWAMQosQ/XE5tjMNBo1I/AAAAAAAALZc/Un1xJF7lT4sV0XNJORciylxEA9O9dDuMQCLcBGAs/s1600/9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gLjcWAMQosQ/XE5tjMNBo1I/AAAAAAAALZc/Un1xJF7lT4sV0XNJORciylxEA9O9dDuMQCLcBGAs/s320/9.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(So many small fungi decorate this tree trunk.)</td></tr>
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I had seen deer tracks criss-crossing the snow all the way up, and then I came across this deer bed. I was tempted to put my hand on the earth to see if it were still warm, since it looked like the deer had recently left, but I knew that in today's temperature, the ground would only have stayed warm for a few seconds. I walked on.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rH78yqLYBIU/XE5tbkJiHrI/AAAAAAAALYk/Fdml9DeoRaoIYxjEq6utbLgVgt_ovGOxgCLcBGAs/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rH78yqLYBIU/XE5tbkJiHrI/AAAAAAAALYk/Fdml9DeoRaoIYxjEq6utbLgVgt_ovGOxgCLcBGAs/s320/10.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A perfect deer bed -- recently vacated?)</td></tr>
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When I first set out today, I had seen numerous dog tracks on the lower trail. Those tracks came from hikers' best friends who had been here before me. But now, higher up where no one had broken the pristine snow with human footprints, I knew that these dog-like tracks belonged to a coyote. A clue is the way that coyotes put their back paws in the tracks of the front paws, one foot stepping where the other had been. This coyote had been traveling at a relaxed trot.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yjEDDuTApTI/XE5tbYpQM6I/AAAAAAAALYg/p1NY1NFMwN4aUIXnlf7eZ2VCyZfSXxzOwCLcBGAs/s1600/12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yjEDDuTApTI/XE5tbYpQM6I/AAAAAAAALYg/p1NY1NFMwN4aUIXnlf7eZ2VCyZfSXxzOwCLcBGAs/s320/12.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Out for a stroll, or hoping for a hunt?)</td></tr>
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And what about this mound? The attractive-meditation-shrine-turned-messy-rock-cairn had to be underneath the smooth white covering. Perhaps buried stones and sticks provided a cozy winter hibernation nest for someone small. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EGX2Io_uvMk/XE5tcFyhEQI/AAAAAAAALYo/igKQdNPOMcQWVWJ3JEHLXaX4QnoIhtgyQCLcBGAs/s1600/13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EGX2Io_uvMk/XE5tcFyhEQI/AAAAAAAALYo/igKQdNPOMcQWVWJ3JEHLXaX4QnoIhtgyQCLcBGAs/s320/13.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Burial mound for a rock cairn)</td></tr>
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And what was that? Blue sky? Feeble shadows came and went across the forest floor as the sun struggled to break through the dark clouds...until it won with a splash of blue.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HZL43Ha8ROM/XE5tcqrsKtI/AAAAAAAALYs/lkjy8TL5eEECFdFlAE_31jyX1jz0BVlYACLcBGAs/s1600/14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HZL43Ha8ROM/XE5tcqrsKtI/AAAAAAAALYs/lkjy8TL5eEECFdFlAE_31jyX1jz0BVlYACLcBGAs/s320/14.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A fabulous surprise!)</td></tr>
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Shadows acquired a sharp definition and deepened in contrast to the now bright white. As I began the descent from Bennett Hill's plateau, my scene changed entirely.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Sun offers a whole new dimension to the trail.)</td></tr>
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I knew I was getting hungry when I saw this log in the woods and was reminded of a roll of cake with white buttercream frosting. I began to think about what I would have as a snack on my way home. A tiny grocery would be a nearby shopping option. My longtime favorite lunch of an apple and cheese awaited me at home, but I longed for something sweeter.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Twinkie?)</td></tr>
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How different the farm scene looked in the sun compared to it's dark appearance when I had arrived. But even as the sun glistened in the foreground, the sky and hills beyond grew dark. I was glad I was almost to the car. I had had enough brushes with freezing rain and preferred to carry the burst of blue sky and sunshine home with me.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Two moods on the farm.)</td></tr>
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It had taken me two hours to hike Bennett Hill, longer than usual. Breaking trail in deep powder had slowed me down, but I felt good. I had breathed deep and worked hard. <br />
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The car seemed drawn to snack options on my way home. I prefer ice cream sandwiches made with two chocolate chip cookies and vanilla ice cream, which I didn't find in the case today, but I bought the next best thing and it tasted pretty good. That apple and cheese wouldn't be too bad when I got home, either.<br />
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Here are links to my Spring and Summer 2017 blog posts about Bennett Hill:<br />
https://nooksandvales.blogspot.com/2017/04/bennett-hill-spring.html <br />
https://nooksandvales.blogspot.com/2017/08/bennett-hill-summer.htmlVirginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-16931513672456133342018-11-24T10:34:00.000-05:002018-11-24T10:34:06.892-05:00Diary of the Great War<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Lauriston Berdan Goetschius, 1918)</td></tr>
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I have been prompted by this year's interest in World War I to share a portion of my grandfather's war diary with you. In April 2012, I gave a presentation on the diary to a French class at The College of St. Rose. At that time, I borrowed the diary from my mother and photographed many of its pages and memorabilia, which are the basis for this post.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Journal de Grand Guerre [sic] 1918)</td></tr>
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My grandfather, Lauriston Goetschius, spent most of his youth on a farm in the western Catskill hamlet of Downsville. Lauriston's father was a noted historian, who named his son after Jacques Alexandre Bernard Law, marquis de Lauriston, a general in the Napoleonic Wars. Brought up with a sense of history and patriotism, my grandfather volunteered to join the army as his honorable duty. Serving his country during The Great War was for him and for many, a coming-of-age experience.<br />
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Laul, as Lauriston's family called him, left Camp Dix, where he was trained, and sailed for France out of New York Harbor on May 27, 1918, at the age of 22.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Despite harsh conditions, Laul's beautiful penmanship prevailed)</td></tr>
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Writing a war diary was not an unusual practice during World War I. Not only did soldiers write, but they wrote with the idea that their diaries might be read by others, perhaps even future generations. We certainly feel this when reading Laul's diary. His writing is sometimes poetic or grandiose by our standards. Thanks to Laul's artistic ability, his diary is sprinkled with drawings as well. I have chosen to share entries with you that I think are particularly interesting or descriptive.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The formidable cootie)</td></tr>
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By the time summer arrived in France, Laul's nostalgia for his native farm country becomes evident.<br />
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"August 7, 1918 -- A beautiful summer morning out on a reconnaissance march up the valley. Everywhere there was the smell of newly cut grain and smell of buckwheat and a humming of the honey bee. "<br />
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Laul's job was to take care of the horses in the cavalry.<br />
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"August 23 -- Formation, stables, foot drill, clean pistols. Women come around and peddle nuts and plums. Men go to the Moselle River for bath in the p.m. Half of men have cooties. Bury horses. Extremely poor food and scant. French children beg for food at mess."<br />
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When I read these passages to St. Rose students, I had to define words like "mess," and later, "drive." To my surprise, they also needed me to tell them what "cooties" were.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Detailed drawings of various cemetery crosses)</td></tr>
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September brought the horrors of war. Here are excerpts from September 3 and 16.<br />
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"Stormy. All night changing position of guns. Germans shelling us. Hear them whistling and singing just over our head and crashing through the trees just behind, and throwing dirt and wood for hundreds of yards. No loss in men, however.<br />
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Advanced into territory occupied by Germans previous to drive. Very bad odor of dead Germans and horses. Forts completely torn down, nothing but stubs left. Shells holes every two feet and dugouts torn to pieces."<br />
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The writing, which seems somewhat detached, forces us to use our
imaginations to conjure up pictures of soldiers in trenches or trudging
through gruesome scenes. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Mama and Papa)</td></tr>
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In this excerpt from September 17, we move from discomfort, to the beauty of the countryside, and finally to horror and back to general discomfort -- a fascinating juxtaposition that offers a glimpse into the turmoil Laul may have been feeling.<br />
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"Pick cooties off undershirt and drawers. Meals terrible. Wonderful view from here over the Lorraine country and the beautiful Moselle valley. Very fertile valley. Beautiful cathedral. City partially destroyed by shelling every hour of the day. Old stone bridge across Moselle destroyed. Hills much like Catskills. French fort to east of city, also statue of Joan of Arc. Ran across a dead German in the wire entanglement. Have not had dry feet for two weeks and no water to wash in for more than that long."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Laul loved children; here are three of his nieces with strands of baby hair taped to the page)</td></tr>
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By October, Laul was getting sick and times were harsh.<br />
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"October 5 -- Sergeant Crowe of my gun killed. A great loss. Men demoralized over it. I helped take off his personal property. Roads full of dead men and horses, torn wagons and caissons. Have a heavy cold and dysentery very bad. Shed my clothes and slaughtered cooties--big catch. We are nearly exhausted. We lay down in muddy roads where we stopped to sleep."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The diary has a back pocket with money and mementos)</td></tr>
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Illness hit hard by October 17 and Laul lets us know how he feels.<br />
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"I got up but could not stand on my legs. Had been up every 15 minutes all night with dysentery. Had to lie down. Boys wrapped me in blankets. Sergeant found me in this condition and gave me hell and told me I must work since I hadn't sense to go on sick report. Doctor comes and marks me "influenza" and to be evacuated, against my wishes. Major tells me if I stay another night I will contract pneumonia. Leave by ambulance at 7 p.m. Red Cross right on job with hot chocolate, crackers, cigarettes, and chewing gum. On American R&R and nearly dead. Spirits low and disappointed. Think of home."<br />
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Influenza was especially frightening at this time during the pandemic of 1918. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(French francs)</td></tr>
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Finding and re-joining his unit after his convalesence proved difficult. How communication and travel has changed in 100 years! Laul was with soldiers of a different unit on November 11. His writing becomes flowery as he describes the dramatic historical moments taking place, evoking the strong possibility that others might read what he wrote.<br />
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"At 4 p.m. the news of the armistice signing arrived. Hostilities ceased at 11 a.m. and once more the world is at peace though thousands of boys were at rest and peace on the battle fields months ago. The camp and town were in a wild uproar. I went into town. One old man cried with joy. Noise kept up way into the night. The war is over. How queer it all seems to me to picture the front no more with the roar of incessant gunfire or aeroplane motors or the spatter of hundreds of machine gun bullets in the mud like a heavy hailstorm. Two things remain and remain always, the lonely soldier graves and the scars of battle on the fields and hills of Europe and on the hearts of every mother, father, sister, brother, wife or sweetheart who has sacrificed all that God can require of them, a heart and soul on the battlefield. God be with them all, and a curse on every German who is directly responsible for the sacrifices of this war."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(a photo, pressed flowers and leaves)</td></tr>
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Months plodded on after the armistice, but, on New Year's Eve, Laul writes:<br />
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"Last day of the year. Drilled all morning. Took cross-country walk in the afternoon. At night we built a great fire in the fireplace which was roaring all night. Conway and I sent the old year out playing chess. Had great time as the new year came in. Much wine, everyone happy. Sang songs and raised the deuce in general. All men formed a circle and drank a cup of wine to the health of all our people home, and the hopes of seeing them and God's Country in the very near future. And so the year of 1918 passes behind us a year of history all the world will carry as long as this old globe continues to travel about the sun making its years of wars and peace. A year which has left sorrow and then peace in all the hearts of everyone. Now America bring us home."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Armistice Day)</td></tr>
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The diary continues with notes about drills, bad food, cold, homesickness, and horses. Laul did not arrive in New York until May 14, 1919. During those post-war months in France, he did have three days of of leave and went to Paris. <br />
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When I was a child, my grandfather told stories about his fellow soldiers and the pranks they pulled. The horrors were left to his diary. However, for the rest of his long life of 97 years, my grandfather suffered from a mustard gas burn behind his shoulder. My grandmother rubbed cream on it. After she died, he fashioned a tool to spread the cream himself, reaching awkwardly behind him to find the spot. When we visited, he always asked us to do this for him. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Hand-drawn map of path across the Atlantic home to New York with days drawn on longitudinal lines, April 27 - May 14, 1919.)</td></tr>
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The St. Rose students had lots of questions about the war experience which I enjoyed answering. They also wanted to hear about my grandfather's life after the war. In 1921, he married my grandmother and and raised a family of two girls in northern New Jersey, where he was an insurance salesman. During the depression, when he lost his job, he used his creative talents to make wooden toys which he sold to FAO Schwarz in New York City from 1936 through 1970. My sister and I still have some of these toys today. The St. Rose students thought that I was very lucky to have had a toy maker for a grandfather! I assured them that I was indeed.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(letter from General Pershing thanking soldiers for their service)</td></tr>
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After I had answered all of the questions, the professor spent the rest of the class time on World War I. She projected a map of France on a large screen and showed the students where my grandfather had been. She also showed them pictures of trenches, missiles, and grave markers.<br />
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The professor's grandfather had been a mail carrier on a bicycle for the Canadian Army in Belgium during the war. On the screen, she displayed pictures of Flanders Fields with its poppies and read the famous poem, "In Flanders Fields," by John McCrae. At The College of St. Rose, students receive poppies on Veteran's Day. They were fascinated to learn how the tradition came about.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A news article stipulating the terms of the armistice)</td></tr>
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The professor told me later, "The students need to understand how important the Twentieth century was." <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HfmAJLHyLM8/W_DGQ9bZg8I/AAAAAAAALWQ/B-k3XpQ51FA0wbxqgShc_wOukFmT096-wCLcBGAs/s1600/13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HfmAJLHyLM8/W_DGQ9bZg8I/AAAAAAAALWQ/B-k3XpQ51FA0wbxqgShc_wOukFmT096-wCLcBGAs/s320/13.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The book my grandfather bought during his three days in Paris)</td></tr>
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<br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-6650233706895013092018-10-31T16:17:00.001-04:002018-10-31T16:17:31.071-04:00October, Red to Yellow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ElWkOEDd6dw/W9EEXkA_qaI/AAAAAAAALTY/ezNYAXMcEskPpefBY3Dq7L0LB1-kzIamwCLcBGAs/s1600/1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ElWkOEDd6dw/W9EEXkA_qaI/AAAAAAAALTY/ezNYAXMcEskPpefBY3Dq7L0LB1-kzIamwCLcBGAs/s320/1.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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Haven't the red trees been beautiful? I've been trying to figure out why reds have been so outstanding in this year's fall foliage. I have decided that red fights the gray cloudy days better than yellow and orange, which, though lovely, have struggled against this autumn's dark skies. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Lots of red trees behind us.)</td></tr>
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I come by my infatuation with fall color honestly. I inherited it from both of my parents and from at least one of my grandparents. In October, I get outdoors whenever I can.<br />
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My friend, Deb, and I hiked Giant Mountain in Keene Valley on October 10. Colors were at peak and the sun was out! In fact, a photographer from I Love NY hiked alongside of us and took our picture in various locations. He preferred that we look away from the camera while pointing a finger towards something in the distance. I asked him to take a picture of the two of us with the colorful view behind us.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Giant's Washbowl)</td></tr>
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He took our picture again as we walked across the bridge over the end of the Washbowl, too. He asked us to look towards the water and its reflection of yellow trees.<br />
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The photographer left us after he took photos from this rocky ledge. He said that he had never been to the summit of Giant, only going as high as he needed for pictures of the valley. He planned to go to other locations for more photos on this day of peak foliage.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Looking down on the Washbowl from one of Giant's many overlooks)</td></tr>
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When people ask me which Adirondack High Peak I recommend, I suggest Giant. Open views abound. Every time a hiker needs to stop and catch a breath, there's a viewpoint. Nowadays, if you go, pick your days to avoid parking issues and crowds on this popular peak. Deb and I were fortunate to hike on the Wednesday after Columbus Day. We only ran into about a dozen people all day.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Looking Southeast through the valley)</td></tr>
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We spent time at the summit of Giant having lunch and taking pictures, and we stopped again at every rocky outcropping on our descent. In fact, we began hiking from the car at 9:30 in the morning and got back to our car at 5:30, almost twice the time Giant usually takes, but, hey, why hurry on a rare day such as this? <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(a golden trail near the base)</td></tr>
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However...it wasn't<i> all</i> leisurely. We added an unexpected trail run for the last half-mile. In dense woods, I stopped and said, "What's that noise? It sounds like a whiny truck, but it's not moving on." Deb listened too. "I think it's construction noise," she said. The sound stopped briefly, but when it re-started, it seemed to be just over our right shoulders and it was LOUD. We stared at one another and gasped, "Bees!" "Swarming bees!!" "And very close!" We took those final tenths of a mile as fast as we could, dodging roots and rocks at top speed.<br />
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When we reached cell service on the drive home, I googled "swarming bees" on my phone. Apparently, they are not dangerous and are interesting to watch. Regardless, the sound of tens of thousands of bees would still send me running.<br />
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Exactly a week later, my friend, Linda, and I hiked Moxham Mountain in Minerva. A dusting of snow and 28 degrees greeted us. In just these past few days, shorts and t-shirts weather had changed to a need for long underwear and woollies!<br />
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Not only that, most of the colored leaves had fallen. Those hillsides awash in crayon-box color, that Deb and I had seen as we had driven by Warrensburg and farther north the week before, had turned to gray. The sky was gray too.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(An oak tree offers color with Gore in the background)</td></tr>
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Despite this day's distinct November feel, Moxham is always a fabulous hike. Although much easier and lower than Giant, it also has overlooks all the way to the summit. We could see snow on Gore Mountain's ski trails and distant ridges of blue mountains. Oak and beech trees, that keep their leaves almost into the winter, brightened the foreground. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Linda on the trail up Moxham)</td></tr>
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The trail curves along a ridge. Some of the exposed rocky overlooks faced the wind; others were more protected.<br />
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We admired lightly snow-dusted trailside ferns and dark hemlocks amidst the hardwoods. Linda and I hadn't been out together beyond our neighborhood since February. What a treat to be here now.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Linda looks for a windless lunch spot on the summit.)</td></tr>
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Moxham's summit view is grand, expanding to nearly 180 degrees. And blue sky -- what a surprise! We could see Snowy Mountain in the distance with its rocky face and snowy summit, and a few ponds and marshes immediately below Moxham's cliffs. <br />
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Despite the sun's arrival, the wind was brutal at the top. We headed back down the trail, past the first overlook to the second one, out of the wind and with most of the panorama still in view. We spent an hour relaxing and soaking up the scenery.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Red stands out on this dark day at the Saratoga Battlefield.)</td></tr>
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All month, I had been watching the progression of color on the Northway from my Albany home to my mother's in Saratoga. Everyone I spoke with here or there, had an opinion on the quality of this year's foliage display. Some folks had been critical of the season for weeks: the colors were patchy, some leaves fell while still brown, some colored trees were dull, many were still green.<br />
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In many ways, they were right, but when the section of highway between Albany and Clifton Park, the halfway point to Saratoga, turned, it was spectacular. I know every inch of this road and watch for the parts that will offer huge swaths of color, such as southbound exit 2W, the area near exit 6, and others. I passed one section with at least six brilliant red trees in a group. I always wish that I could get a picture of these road views, but driving at highway speed just doesn't allow for that! <br />
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Peak color had arrived close-to-home. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The sun appears through the trees at the Battlefield)</td></tr>
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Recently, I had time, after a music rehearsal in Saratoga, to go to the Saratoga Battlefield before returning to Albany. Rain hit the windshield, slowing just as I arrived at the Visitor Center parking lot. Clouds hung heavy. I kept wishing for sun to "light up the color," as my father always said.<br />
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Rain had completely stopped when I headed out on the Wilkinson Trail, a 4.6-mile walk through the Battlefield. It felt great to get outdoors, and damp fall smells filled the air. And what happened next? Sunshine again!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The sun brings out the yellow, while the red recedes)</td></tr>
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I have walked the Wilkinson Trail many times over my entire life. Something struck me as odd. I double-checked the trail signs. The entire trail direction had been reversed! When I returned to the Visitor Center, I asked about changes to the trail. The ranger said, "The trail is the same, just in the opposite direction. We decided that walkers should see the Battle of Saratoga from its first ambushes to the last in chronological order rather than the other way around. It seemed to make sense to change the trail's direction." It did make sense. <br />
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When I got home and looked at the pictures I had taken on the Wilkinson Trail, red trees appeared more pronounced in the dark picture. Yet, on my return, when the sun was out, the yellow overshadowed the red in the same group of trees. That's when I began to think that red outshines yellow in gray weather.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Mohawk River at Colonie Town Park)</td></tr>
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Not long after, I had an meeting in Latham, just a mile from Colonie Town Park. October was on the wane and I knew that my days were numbered for catching fall foliage. Besides, a nor-easter was predicted for the weekend, forecasted to bring a wintry mix of snow, rain, and high winds. Our leaves would come down. I couldn't resist taking a quick walking tour of the park.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Light from the river meets the yellow and dark green in this woodsy view.)</td></tr>
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Colonie Town Park is fronted by the Mohawk River. I walked for an hour along the river and through the woods. A colored hillside dominated the view across the steel-gray water. On the trail, the dark sky made deep hemlock forests even darker.<br />
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The trail eventually comes out to a narrow inlet and the park road's covered bridge. Colorful maples and dry grasses framed the water and bridge. A red bench looked inviting where couple of red trees and a large orange tree dotted the curve of land and reflected in the water. On this dark day, the dominance of orange tested my red theory, but so what. I loved it all.<br />
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I drove the short distance home. The sun came out and disappeared again. Once at home, I heard rain hitting the windows. Then a brightness flooded in my kitchen. The sun had fought its way through the rain, and produced a new view. <br />
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<br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-61137195660958312922018-09-22T14:04:00.001-04:002018-09-22T22:18:53.362-04:00Two Lakes, Two Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(my campsite )</td></tr>
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The car thermometer registered 87 degrees in Speculator, as I drove to the Lewey Lake Campground. I knew that it was far warmer back in Albany, but the heat was pretty intense even here. Arriving in the early afternoon, I asked for a site on the Indian Lake side of the campground.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A loon swims nearby)</td></tr>
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My camping life at Indian Lake began when I was child with my parents and sister and continued through Bill's and my years with our children. Recently, I had camped here with friends, but this day I was by myself.<br />
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At my campsite, I had lunch and changed into my bathing suit. I couldn't wait another minute to escape the nearly intolerable humidity. Being able to swim from the campsite always feels like a luxury. Even chilly Indian Lake was not as cold as usual after our record-breaking hot summer. I swam to nearby rocks and a small island.<br />
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When I returned to my site, I took on the next business of camping -- getting my boat off the car and setting up my tent. No other campers were visible from my site and I was glad. I didn't feel like socializing and making small talk. I also didn't want anyone to watch me haul my boat. I can handle the boat but getting it on or off the car isn't always graceful! <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The sky darkens with an impending storm)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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With chores behind me, I decided to go for a paddle along the north
side of the lake where a few campsites are scattered between long sections of
woods. When I was a child, my parents preferred the farthest site, #1. Later, Bill and I took any available site on this side although two or three were top favorites. In the era before the reservation system, we were always able to secure one of these upon arrival. <br />
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I watched a loon close by. Like many people who love the Adirondacks, I never tire of seeing and hearing loons. I noticed that the sky darkened ominously, so I paddled back, had another quick swim, and prepared my campsite for rain.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Smooth as glass after the rain)</td></tr>
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I felt like Nick Adams in Hemingway's "Big Two-Hearted River," without Nick's PTSD and definitely without his canned spaghetti, but with his deliberate slow methodical approach to his camping trip. I spoke to no one, did what I wanted to do and what needed to be done. It seemed very satisfactory.<br />
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The rain came down hard, but I was snug in my little two-person tent. What a great feeling to sit reading in a tent, dry and comfortable, as the rain pounded just a thin breadth of fabric away. When the rain subsided slightly, I decided to walk over to Lewey Lake to see if the southwest sky looked brighter. Although I could make out the forms of mountains beyond, the clouds still hung thick.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ta_mTO69PeY/W5ZPWjdeYOI/AAAAAAAALQ4/NtOWMdmsT8kGhFmU-fBFKmHgtWI0nGIjwCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC05801.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ta_mTO69PeY/W5ZPWjdeYOI/AAAAAAAALQ4/NtOWMdmsT8kGhFmU-fBFKmHgtWI0nGIjwCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC05801.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Early evening sky at Indian Lake)</td></tr>
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I walked back to my Indian Lake site through the wooded campsites where my parents camped when they were empty-nesters. My father had bought a small camper and particularly liked the site where he could drive the car up one side, disconnect the camper from the car, and drive down the other side.<br />
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Days were noticeably shorter now at the end of August. I ate my simple dinner quickly, and then set out for an evening paddle. This time I paddled on the south side of the lake which offers views of Snowy Mountain, the highest mountain in the Central Adirondacks. No other boats were visible on the water and I was entranced by the colors and textures of the sky.<br />
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Any time I camp at Indian Lake, I make sure to visit two coves on this side of the lake. These isolated quiet areas attract shy mergansers with their
large families, or herons. Sometimes a deer may come to the water's edge for a drink. I saw no birds or animals this time. Maybe they were still tucked in from the storm.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Water heading into the cove is still)</td></tr>
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A bit of red began to show in the sky where the sun peaked through. The water ruffled with the merest touch of a breeze. I sat in my boat watching the display.<br />
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Darkness was serious now, so I paddled to an empty campsite where I could get out of my boat and watch the sky until the sun set.<br />
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After a while, I paddled along the shoreline back to my campsite, got ready for bed, and settled into my tent, reading for a while by head lamp.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(A solitary light shines under misty mountains)</td></tr>
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After a night of more heavy rain, I checked my view in the morning. Tiny breaks in the clouds foreshadowed the upcoming beautiful day. In fact, I had come to Indian and Lewey Lakes for a reason -- on this day, my father's outing club, the Crooked Canes, were hosting an Irv Boyle Memorial Paddle on Lewey Lake and into the Miami River as a tribute to him.<br />
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The "Canes," as the members call themselves, were to meet at the Lewey Lake boat launch at 10:00 a.m. I packed up my camping gear and loaded my boat onto the car. I wanted to be there ahead of them and drove the short distance down and across the road, took my boat off and set it by the launch, parking my car in the lot above. The sky continued to clear as people arrived.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The morning sky has some breaks of sun)</td></tr>
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I knew some of the Canes, but many were new to the club since my father had been an active member. When all had gathered, the leader, Lenore, introduced me. I told the members how my father would have loved this outing in his favorite area of the entire Adirondack Park, and how he had thoroughly enjoyed his more than 20 years of Thursday outings with the Canes.<br />
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It was a gorgeous day. The group was friendly. Many people spoke to me about my father, asked about my mother, chatted about paddles and hikes that they loved, and told me how glad they were that I was with them. I was touched by the caring and sensitivity of the participants, some of whom had been close friends of my father, and others who had only heard about him. Over lunch at a clearing with a small beach, Lenore asked for "Irv stories," and shared cookie bars that she was sure my father would have liked. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q5NJx9igSG8/W5ZPeRDCkhI/AAAAAAAALRU/13Ujs_yCs5IaRzRj83WEDE8oeJKP04b2QCEwYBhgL/s1600/Photo%2BAug%2B30%252C%2B10%2B50%2B01%2BAM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1061" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q5NJx9igSG8/W5ZPeRDCkhI/AAAAAAAALRU/13Ujs_yCs5IaRzRj83WEDE8oeJKP04b2QCEwYBhgL/s320/Photo%2BAug%2B30%252C%2B10%2B50%2B01%2BAM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Paddlers head along the north shore of Lewey Lake)</td></tr>
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When we returned to the launch and paddlers began loading their boats on their cars, I spoke with each one and thanked them for this day. One woman said to me, "It has been an honor to have you with us." But the honor was mine. I could never imagine a tribute to my father more perfect than this had been.<br />
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I had left my boat by the water, and, after good-byes, I told those that remained that I was going to go for a swim and then head home. The beach at Lewey Lake is shallow for a long way so the water was still quite warm even though the previous night's storms had brought in cool temperatures. I slipped into the water easily and swam laps. Finally, I got out and sat on a picnic table wrapped in my beach towel. Only one couple, Diane and Kurt, appeared to still be loading their boats.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hP1Y77oB1WQ/W5ZPfzR8cmI/AAAAAAAALRc/DuLWCMK13sMhubQP4TqWv2yB3DquumXtACEwYBhgL/s1600/Photo%2BAug%2B30%252C%2B12%2B36%2B34%2BPM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hP1Y77oB1WQ/W5ZPfzR8cmI/AAAAAAAALRc/DuLWCMK13sMhubQP4TqWv2yB3DquumXtACEwYBhgL/s320/Photo%2BAug%2B30%252C%2B12%2B36%2B34%2BPM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The Crooked Canes paddle out of the Miami River with Snowy Mtn. in the distance)</td></tr>
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Lewey Lake is beautiful, and I gazed across it with gratitude for my personal and family history here, for my solo camping trip at Indian Lake, and for the kindness shown to me this day.<br />
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Suddenly I saw motion near my boat and glanced over to see Diane and Kurt picking it up. Diane motioned that they were going to take my boat up the hill. I hopped off the table, but in a chorus they shouted, "No, no, you stay sitting there!" Kurt added, "We'll leave your boat in front of your car." There clearly was nothing for me to do but to thank them and sit back on the picnic table. They drove away, and I was the only person left in the beach and boat launch area.<br />
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It is always hard to leave an Adirondack lake on a beautiful day, but it was time to go. I changed into my clothes, loaded my boat on the car, and drove away. I would carry my memories of these hours camping alone and paddling with thoughtful people home with me.<br />
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<br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-21256506149843235452018-08-17T11:12:00.002-04:002018-08-17T11:20:22.954-04:00A Day at Beekman 1802<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_4-CbnLjyIg/W29YFRei91I/AAAAAAAALPQ/sVZtZNMsixY0OobQDLZSddN_qfMNm4oYwCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC05603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_4-CbnLjyIg/W29YFRei91I/AAAAAAAALPQ/sVZtZNMsixY0OobQDLZSddN_qfMNm4oYwCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC05603.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Meredith on the farm)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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When Meredith asked for personal care products from Beekman 1802 for her December birthday, it was easy to go the next step and plan a visit to the farm.<br />
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Beekman 1802 is open to the public for tours and during two annual festivals. We chose July's Garden Tour. In Sharon Springs, less than an hour from Albany, Beekman 1802 has become a huge business for Brent and Josh, since they bought the farm with little know-how and high hopes. The Beekman Boys' message is hard work, living seasonally, and neighborly sharing.<br />
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Nasdaq reported: When Josh Kilmer-Purcell (advertising executive and NY Times Bestselling author)<i> </i>and
his partner Brent Ridge (physician and former Vice President of Healthy
Living for Martha Stewart Omnimedia) purchased the historic Beekman
1802 Farm in 2007, they had no idea that it would launch one of the
“fastest growing lifestyle brands in the country.”<br />
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In fact, these guys seem to be everywhere now, 11 years later.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9_5dPYbjRxY/W29YApmPlUI/AAAAAAAALPA/tUg93Mx_1SgCw8jwe0M-Uz-BVLq3_2-awCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC05599.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9_5dPYbjRxY/W29YApmPlUI/AAAAAAAALPA/tUg93Mx_1SgCw8jwe0M-Uz-BVLq3_2-awCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC05599.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The front of the house faces a country road lined with maple trees)</td></tr>
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After a pretty ride on a blue-sky day, Meredith and I drove into the driveway between tall sugar maple trees, where we were ushered into a grassy parking space by the barn. Already, we knew that we would be a very pleasant tour.<br />
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Brent shared the farm's history, with our group of about 30 people, and described various aspects of the house built in 1802. While largely restored before Josh and Brent bought it, the house had not been lived in for a few years. Despite coming upstate only on weekends in their early days of ownership, they put significant energy into making the house, and the farm's 60 acres, their own. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p75gU9T460k/W29YIbzcX8I/AAAAAAAALPo/J31x9mFz7V4Chrg_JTCb4HHgrK0PWbxuQCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC05608.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p75gU9T460k/W29YIbzcX8I/AAAAAAAALPo/J31x9mFz7V4Chrg_JTCb4HHgrK0PWbxuQCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC05608.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Brent told us about the farm's history, the flower gardens and other plantings)</td></tr>
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The Beekman Boys have been restoring the land by growing trees, vegetables, and flowers consistent with the early-1800s era. Brent showed us young trees that he and Josh had bought from a heritage nursery in Seattle.<br />
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One of the problems with re-introducing trees from hundreds of years past is that many of the pests that we have today did not exist long ago. While Brent and Josh have had mixed results with their plantings, they persist in finding horticulture that would have existed here when the house was built.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Meredith with a huge row of white hydrangeas)</td></tr>
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Meredith and I learned a lot. I had not known that hydrangea canes could be laid down in the earth and would sprout a new plant. The bountiful blooming hedge thriving in front of the porch had been a project over the previous ten years. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(This is the lovely view most often seen in the Beekman Boys books and advertising)</td></tr>
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For a long time, the house had not had a porch, now such an integral part of its appearance. During one restoration period, evidence of a previous porch surfaced. Researchers were able to find the builder's description of another house just like this one, but with the front porch, that he built around 1802 in a nearby location. <br />
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After visiting that house and seeing the porch intact,
current builders knew how it should be
rebuilt at the Beekman house. We were fascinated by the serendipitous discovery of the original builder's plans and the care that
went into historic accuracy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-keikdsyjhsM/W29ZBIqlQnI/AAAAAAAALQQ/rCVfM2mHIsYdAYBsr8j2HHLssHkwLDdwQCLcBGAs/s1600/DSC05622.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-keikdsyjhsM/W29ZBIqlQnI/AAAAAAAALQQ/rCVfM2mHIsYdAYBsr8j2HHLssHkwLDdwQCLcBGAs/s320/DSC05622.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(perennials dominate the flower gardens)</td></tr>
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After we admired the porch, the house details, and the hydrangeas, Brent showed us the flower gardens. Filled with old-fashioned flowers in a riot of summer color, the gardens' deep-rooted perennials appeared to be surviving the Northeast's ongoing drought quite well. Brent said that the eventual height of the plants would give this space a sense of privacy, conducive to reading, meditation, or just relaxing.<br />
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The traditional pond built for fire safety is shallow and growing in. Brent admitted that his favorite place to sit on the entire farm is under the big willow tree on the edge of the pond. Unfortunately, the willows drink up the water, contributing to growth of unhealthy plants and a low water table. "Someday the willows will have to go," he said regretfully.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Cattails surrounding a small pond can be an indicator of poor pond health)</td></tr>
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In fact, the chair placed beneath the willow boughs appeared idyllic. We had seen many pretty places on the farm, so it might take a while for us to choose our favorite, but this shady spot on a warm day would certainly be in the running. It did not escape us, however, that sitting and soaking up the beauty and calm in the gardens or by the pond was very likely a rare activity in the busy lives of Josh and Brent.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Such a nice view from the willow tree across to the house and barn)</td></tr>
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John Hall is the resident farmer at Beekman 1802. Although Brent and Josh have learned a lot about farming over the
past ten years, Farmer John's wealth of knowledge and experience has
been a huge asset. The farm is primarily a goat dairy. Farmer John manages his own herd of approximately 130 goats. The goat milk is used to make Beekman 1802's signature Blaak goat milk cheese and other products. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DL7AfTaspTA/W29YRUJvmTI/AAAAAAAALP0/nr-jAEyAasgC_RDpKwpOfo9xfE6RfIr3QCEwYBhgL/s1600/DSC05634.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1158" data-original-width="1600" height="231" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DL7AfTaspTA/W29YRUJvmTI/AAAAAAAALP0/nr-jAEyAasgC_RDpKwpOfo9xfE6RfIr3QCEwYBhgL/s320/DSC05634.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Meredith makes a new friend)</td></tr>
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Farmer John answered lots of questions from people in our group. We could tell that he loved talking about his goats. Eventually, Josh came into the barn and told John that it was time for us to move along to the vegetable garden. Our one-hour tour felt very leisurely, even though we were one of three tours on this day.<br />
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Josh grew up with some farm experience and took on the project of growing a vegetable garden. Josh and Brent found no evidence of a previous garden location until they stumbled upon some struggling raspberry bushes that appeared to have been planted in a row. This fortuitous discovery settled the question of where the garden should be located. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Josh pulls up garlic bulbs to share)</td></tr>
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They chose to make raised-bed gardens, because weeds do not infiltrate raised beds except from seeds that are airborne from the fields. Raising the beds also creates a barrier to slugs, snails, and other pests. To me, these beds appeared easy to work in, rather digging at ground level on hands and knees, and how orderly they were with gravel paths between! <br />
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Josh and Brent travel often and have to leave the farm when their produce is at its best. They tell the neighbors to pick whatever they want for themselves during their absence. Josh told us the same, and began by giving us garlic cloves which he pulled from the garlic plot.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Nobody has to tell me twice that I can eat as many raspberries as I can pick!)</td></tr>
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It became increasing clear that the Beekman Boys are not concerned about garnering an income from farming. They make their living through the products they sell, their books and
magazines, a reality television show, and now the Home Shopping Network. <br />
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While they can afford to experiment with heirloom plantings and share their bounty, they do this with a generous spirit, which has made them good neighbors in Sharon Springs. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Our farm garden bounty)</td></tr>
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Meredith and I were not greedy, but enjoyed pulling heirloom beets from the beet bed and plucking a couple of bean pods, besides keeping the garlic cloves that Josh gave us to take home. Despite Josh warning us that the drought had dried up almost all of the raspberries, we still found enough to have a good taste.<br />
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(I later gave Meredith my beet with its lush greens and my garlic
clove, which she took back to Brooklyn along with her own. The next evening, she boiled and sliced the beets and alternated them log-style with slices of goat cheese on top of the sauteed greens and garlic! Yum.)<br />
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At the end of our tour, Josh said that we should feel free to roam any part of the property.<br />
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The original description of our tour had encouraged participants to bring a picnic blanket and a picnic to eat on the grounds. Although we had brought a blanket, we found a table and chairs under a large maple tree and had our picnic lunch there. We saw others from our group scattered in different areas on their blankets or a bench as well.<br />
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Finally, Meredith and I drove into Sharon Springs and visited Beekman Mercantile. Back in the early 1800s, the Beekman house had had a mercantile on the farm property where the family sold provisions to people heading west. The idea of a Beekman Mercantile was not a new one.<br />
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Josh and Brent chose to open their mercantile in an old building on Main Street. Many of their products are made by local artisans which connects the store to its community. From jams and foods to personal care products, and upstairs to furniture and home decor items, this store is fun to browse.<br />
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Next, Meredith and I walked Main Street. Surely, the Beekman Boys have given this struggling town an economic boost. We saw people from our tour going in and out of galleries, gift shops, and restaurants. It's no wonder that Brent and Josh wear t-shirts with the words, "Hi Neighbor," printed on the front.<br />
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All that remained to complete our day was ice cream, which we found at Dairyland, a classic ice cream stop on the way out of town and recommended by Brent and Josh. <br />
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<br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-36803736175111844892018-07-12T21:40:00.001-04:002018-07-13T18:40:07.975-04:00Snippets of ScandinaviaI did everything I could to keep the number of pictures in this blog post about Bill's and my trip to Scandinavia to a reasonable amount. But, with just a few days in Denmark and Sweden, and the bulk of our two-week trip in Norway, this truly became a photo essay of "snippets" with more than twice as many scenes as I normally include. Take it from me, Scandinavia is very picturesque!<br />
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We arrived in Copenhagen, Denmark, early, with the day ahead of us unscheduled, after traveling and sleep deprivation. Our tour guide, Amanda, recommended that we walk along the water's edge to the Nyhavn (New Harbor, 1671) canal, a popular area in the old
section of the city. She said, "Nyhavn is fun to visit and a view you will see on every Denmark brochure." This turned out to be a perfect beginning to our trip.</div>
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I couldn't resist this messenger, relaxing and waiting for his next call -- just flip down the kick stand and sit on the package rack in the sun with your phone. <br />
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As we walked along canals and wandered various streets, the King's
Garden at Rosenborg Castle drew me in. I left Bill sitting on a bench, passed people relaxing on the grounds, crossed the moat, and, sure enough, found lush rose gardens. Rosenborg was the country summerhouse of King Christian IV, built in 1606.</div>
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Walking along the Inner Harbor, we learned that, previously, the water here had been polluted from centuries of industry and commerce. Now, with the warehouses turned into expensive apartments and condos, and the river clean, people walk, ride their bikes, sunbathe, and even slide down into the water on this series of boardwalks.<br />
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What a juxtaposition of the "Black Diamond," an extension of the Royal Library, next to the old Brewery<br />
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And how about the new opera house? It would be exciting to hear a concert here!<br />
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Not far from Copenhagen, charm outdid itself in this village of whitewashed cottages and rose-covered picket
fences. I walked so far taking pictures of cute houses, that I had
only moments to get my feet wet in the bay. Although I was in a stony jetty area, white sand beaches abound on the Danish
Riviera. <br />
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I'm sharing the chapel of Frederiksborg, Frederik IV's hunting
home, with you because its massive pipe organ built in 1610 with 1001 wooden pipes must be a marvel to hear live. Even the recorded sound of the organ, playing 17th-century music that filled the chapel during our visit, was moving.
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This cute building with its public post box on the side and roses up the front is in Odense, the town where Hans Christian Andersen spent his childhood. Odense is actually a large city of 178,000, but it has an extensive neighborhood of 17th century buildings and Medieval churches. <br />
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Don't you love the kaleidoscope of brick designs on this building in Randers, another town peppered with streets from the early 1600s? I was taken with the fact that so many of the very old buildings in Randers are being used much as they had been over the centuries -- storefronts and shops at street level and apartments above.<br />
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We left Denmark and headed into Norway, where we visited Trolhaugen, composer Edvard Grieg's home. I thought you would agree with me (and Edvard, of course!) that local carving adds beauty to home decor.<br />
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Grieg's studio is a jewel. A tiny building facing the bay, the studio could certainly offer creative inspiration. With the desk in front of the window, a small piano along one wall, and a day bed along the other, couldn't you or I accomplish great things in a place like this?<br />
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The Bryggen area in Bergen, built in the 1300s as a dock for loading and
processing fish, evolved into this jumble of warehouse construction in 1710. It now houses shops, galleries, and restaurants. Amanda said that this was a good place to shop for quality, although sometimes pricey, items. I admit to buying a Norwegian sweater in a small tucked-away store.<br />
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Exposure to a variety of cultural opportunities is one of the many
parts of our tours that we love. We visited a small farm where we feasted on a
smorgasbord of foods made and prepared on the property.<br />
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The farm has horses for work and play. Take a look at the dun-colored horse on the the left. This is a
Norwegian fjord horse and has a distinctive skunk-like black stripe
through its blonde mane, bangs, and tail!<br />
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Speaking of fjords, I am showing great self-restraint by including just a few photos of the stunning drama that Norway presents.<br />
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These glacier-formed mountains and cliffs often stand a mile above the water and reach a mile deep into the water.<br />
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Sometimes a rainy day just adds to the magnificence.<br />
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That fjord farmers eked out a living on the edge<br />
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seems unbelievable. In fact, they grew quite a bit of fruit, even
apricots. We learned that summer days of nearly 24-hour light give Norwegian fruit an intense flavor and sweetness.<br />
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For my readers who have never gone on a coach tour, don't believe
people who say that buses can't go to out-of-the-way places. Our driver
negotiated many many twisty tiny routes, such as Dalsnibba's wintry road, that appears to drop out of sight.<br />
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And another down through Trollstigen Pass. Amanda rewarded everyone (although not our driver who deserved it most!) with a taste of Aquavit, a regional 80 proof distillation of grain and potatoes. Bill declared it very tasty.<br />
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The Village of Lom is famous for its 12th-century stave church. On this Saturday, the church was not open to tourists because a wedding was taking place inside, so I took off for the hills. Many of you know that this is my wont. I found a collection of quaint Norwegian houses and barns at the edge of a farm field surrounded by wildflowers. <br />
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Fortunately, Amanda had a stop at the Ringabu Stavkirke in her pocket. This, too, had a wedding planned. When we arrived at the church, Amanda walked some distance to find out if the wedding was over so that we could tour the inside. As it turned out, the wedding had been canceled! Although we hoped this was not due to pre-marital strife, we felt fortunate to have the place to ourselves!<br />
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Stave churches were built by Vikings, who, by the time Christianity was prevalent in Norway, were farmers more than warriors. Being skeptical of the new religion, the builders included all the Christian symbols but also added a few carvings of their own gods and dragons. The "staves" are the tall load-bearing pine columns in this construction. Even though there were once over 1200 of these wooden churches in Norway, the fact that 32 have survived from the 1100s is astonishing.<br />
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Lillehammer is not only home to the 1994 Olympics, but also to the open-air museum village of Milhaugen. I couldn't get enough of the carvings on barns, houses, and any utility building.<br />
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Back in 1994, Bill and I were drawn to the televised Norwegian city scenes from Lillehammer. You may remember that these Olympic games were the site of the infamous figure skating battle between Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan, as well as the more glorious moments of American speed skater Dan Jansen, and skiers Bonnie Blair, and Picabo Street.<br />
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In Oslo, we walked narrow streets and toured Vigeland Park and its
more than 200 sculptures. We went to museums such as the Nobel Peace
Center, and the Viking Museum where we saw original excavated Viking
ships and sleds. At the Fram Polar Ship Museum, we learned about early
voyages to the north and south poles.<br />
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And, look at this -- Bill caught dinner while in the polar regions!!<br />
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In Stockholm, where our tour ended, we visited its City Hall, and the captivating Vasa Ship Museum. <br />
And we took our last of many boats rides past man-made and natural beauty. <br />
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To finish off our journey to Denmark, Norway, and Sweden, we donned heavy coats and hoods, had a drink in a glass made of ice, sat on a chair
made of ice, and were grateful for our Scandinavian experience.<br />
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<br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-70660374362569519332018-04-10T09:36:00.001-04:002018-04-15T09:56:41.345-04:00The Barbershop as a Microcosm<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To my blog readers:</div>
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I wrote this series of vignettes about my father's decline, due to Alzheimer's Disease, in February 2018, just three weeks after his entry into a nursing home, when I began processing January's major changes in my parents' lives. My visits with my father to Larry's Barbershop provided a perfect setting, because my experience there had been limited to about an hour every five or six weeks for nearly two years when I took my father there for a haircut. I could wrap my mind around these small segments of time. Now, three months later, I know that I will continue working through new changes in new ways, but I have chosen to share these with you.</div>
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The first time I went to Larry's, I was
charmed. This place could have come right out of Norman
Rockwell. In fact, prints of Rockwell's barbershop paintings
hung in the shop, along with the typical Saratoga Springs horse scenes and
other memorabilia. Just one mid-sized room with two barber chairs
and an assortment of seating space, the barbershop clearly had once
been a parlor or living room. It had a marble fireplace with a
carved mantle, and an old-fashioned appeal with the older barber and the
younger.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YL6I_INVfjc/WpimbLnAcsI/AAAAAAAAK_U/T8HmCcrvikwzmdtL6FMzX_FCPGnHRRQzQCLcBGAs/s1600/bg%2BPop%2Bat%2Bbarbershop%2BApril%2B2016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YL6I_INVfjc/WpimbLnAcsI/AAAAAAAAK_U/T8HmCcrvikwzmdtL6FMzX_FCPGnHRRQzQCLcBGAs/s320/bg%2BPop%2Bat%2Bbarbershop%2BApril%2B2016.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(My father, Irv, and Larry, 2016)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The next time I had the perfect angle to get a picture of my father in the chair with Larry behind him. Unobtrusively, I took a photo with my phone and texted it to Bill, Thomas, and Meredith. I began to read the newspaper I had brought with me, but had one ear on the conversation. My father talked with Larry about the outdoors. Larry had been a downhill skier, and my father, as always, told how he loved to ski at Bromley in late winter when the trails faced the warmth of the spring sun. I often wondered about this. We had never gone as a family to Bromley. Still, it was a pleasant conversation as other men came in and sat down to wait their turn for their haircuts.</div>
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My father regaled Larry with hiking stories, bringing me in. “That's my daughter, Virginia,” he would<br />
say. “She's a 46er.” Then Larry looked my way and we chatted a bit as I described hiking the peaks<br />
first as a teenager with my father, and later completing the 46 Adirondack peaks with my own daughter.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nFovrmjjYO0/WpnhAl8dz4I/AAAAAAAALBQ/gtl5AVlzou85mRoEL2Ponbsej3eGxuejwCLcBGAs/s1600/Photo%2BMar%2B02%252C%2B6%2B35%2B51%2BPM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nFovrmjjYO0/WpnhAl8dz4I/AAAAAAAALBQ/gtl5AVlzou85mRoEL2Ponbsej3eGxuejwCLcBGAs/s320/Photo%2BMar%2B02%252C%2B6%2B35%2B51%2BPM.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Many times Irv's stories went way back to his rural childhood in Ontario, Canada)</td></tr>
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It took me a while to get around to printing the photo of my father in the barbershop. I made two<br />
copies and gave him one. My mother immediately put it on the refrigerator. I decided to drop<br />
in at the barbershop that afternoon on my way back to Albany, and give the other copy to Larry. Larry and Mike saw me come in. Larry had a questioning expression at seeing me by myself. I handed him the envelope with the photo in it. “It's a picture,” I said with a smile, and turned to leave. The next time my father and I went to the barbershop, the photo was secured in the corner of Larry's large shop mirror.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UKdRMSdyNlQ/Wpinchu3CPI/AAAAAAAAK_c/tc49yptakisNPNre7MTzE7KCRr0qoODXQCLcBGAs/s1600/0666.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1063" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UKdRMSdyNlQ/Wpinchu3CPI/AAAAAAAAK_c/tc49yptakisNPNre7MTzE7KCRr0qoODXQCLcBGAs/s320/0666.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Irv in the Adirondack High Peaks, 1978)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I began to notice the friendly conversation of the other men. Most people knew one another, or at least they knew Larry and Mike. Sports, horse racing, news, and other topics ran the gamut. Often my</div>
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father's and Larry's conversations included me. Larry liked to ask me about Albany or talk about things happening there. I got the sense that he had little interest in spending much time in Albany, but used his trips there as a common point of interest with me.</div>
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My father became less patient with waiting. One day, I searched the pile of magazines in the shop.<br />
Larry turned and said pleasantly, “You won't find many women's magazines in there.”<br />
“Oh that's okay,” I said. “I was looking for something for him,” gesturing toward my father. I found a magazine that had some scenic pictures, and managed to entertain my father with them to keep his interest during the wait.</div>
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It dawned on me that my father might not be giving Larry or Mike enough money. He had gotten<br />
stingy about tipping at restaurants, and I didn't want him shorting these nice guys. I stopped in on my<br />
way home, again drawing attention with my solo appearance. These were working men, and I wanted<br />
to be quick, so I just said, as I walked in, “Is my father paying you enough?” Larry said yes. I turned<br />
to Mike who had cut my father's hair that day, “And what about a tip? Did he tip you?” “I'm pretty sure he did,” Mike said. “Okay, good,” I said. But from then on, I watched as my father pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. I stood up, put my glasses on, and moved in closer, so that I could see the denominations of the bills. My father seemed unaware of my scrutiny, but Larry and Mike knew. As soon as I saw that the bill and tip were properly attended to, I stepped away and got our coats.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3W2bCOplRvU/WpiuehlP4SI/AAAAAAAALAs/btiFbemyRUYJxKTWwc2-WsT2Zf2b99b4wCLcBGAs/s1600/be%2BIrv%2Bon%2BBalm%2Bof%2BGilead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1203" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3W2bCOplRvU/WpiuehlP4SI/AAAAAAAALAs/btiFbemyRUYJxKTWwc2-WsT2Zf2b99b4wCLcBGAs/s320/be%2BIrv%2Bon%2BBalm%2Bof%2BGilead.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Our last Adirondack hike, 88th birthday, Balm of Gilead, 2012)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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By now, my father had a boot on his right foot from ongoing podiatric issues. Larry began opening the door for us as we left so that I could guide my father. I made sure he didn't miss a step or trip with the clumsy footwear.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-coefEhRHWsw/Wpisjos2nHI/AAAAAAAALAg/yb0a9a4r5yAD5jalDqrBTSCcnZfi0Vs9ACLcBGAs/s1600/aw%2BPop%2Band%2BMeredith%2Blooking%2Bat%2BWWII%2Blocations2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1161" data-original-width="1600" height="232" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-coefEhRHWsw/Wpisjos2nHI/AAAAAAAALAg/yb0a9a4r5yAD5jalDqrBTSCcnZfi0Vs9ACLcBGAs/s320/aw%2BPop%2Band%2BMeredith%2Blooking%2Bat%2BWWII%2Blocations2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Irv's WWII travels became an increasingly larger part of his memory)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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My father was out of sorts when I said we were going for his haircut. “I don't need a haircut,” he said. “It can wait.” The barber shop was busy and barely any empty seats remained. I quietly told Larry, “We might not make it today.” My father took two steps in, turned around, and in an angry voice said, “Hell! Can't we get out of this damned place?” I began to shepherd him out, turned to look at Larry, with a sheepish grin. Both Larry and Mike had expressions of surprised amusement. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1INQSpufggw/WpioqGU71lI/AAAAAAAAK_o/w8GHWreIuQQasXtJuJXynRogiwg_Ca2kACEwYBhgL/s1600/Irv%2Bat%2BLuzerne%252C%2BJuly%2B2016.mov" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="179" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1INQSpufggw/WpioqGU71lI/AAAAAAAAK_o/w8GHWreIuQQasXtJuJXynRogiwg_Ca2kACEwYBhgL/s320/Irv%2Bat%2BLuzerne%252C%2BJuly%2B2016.mov" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Irv swimming at Lake Luzerne, 2016, age 92)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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My father became very stooped, and still wore the boot on his foot. The weather had turned hot, and he and Larry talked about swimming. I mentioned that I had recently taken my father swimming at Lake Luzerne and that he was an amazing swimmer. Larry liked these tales and they boosted my father's spirits. I told about his rhythmic breathing and stride. I said, “Even now, when there are so many things he can't do, he can get in the water, and it all comes back -- the same slow stride and the breathing, like he could swim for miles.”</div>
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I picked my father up at the house. He hadn't shaved and was looking a little rough. In the<br />
barber chair, after the haircut, Larry took a razor out of his drawer and gave my father a quick shave. Nothing was said. I appreciated that Larry cleaned him up in such a discreet way. I told my mother about this kindness.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gk8O4IA77zE/Wpiqb5ihZRI/AAAAAAAALAM/aZp1iWdqTlQLVAxJJkt2ErUpXDcrk2UcgCLcBGAs/s1600/ck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1207" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gk8O4IA77zE/Wpiqb5ihZRI/AAAAAAAALAM/aZp1iWdqTlQLVAxJJkt2ErUpXDcrk2UcgCLcBGAs/s320/ck.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Thoroughbred racing is a big part of a Saratoga summer!)</td></tr>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Another busy day at the shop. I was pushing it, getting my father to agree to stay with so many people waiting. My mother thought he was desperate for a haircut and I didn't want to fail at my job. I<br />
struggled to find a magazine that would keep his interest, finally locating one with travel photos. We went cover-to-cover looking at the pictures, and then started over again, since my father wouldn't remember that he had seen the same pictures already. I said, “Look at that! You've been there.” He would add a comment and we continued on. With the repetition of the pictures, I repeated the same words with the same enthusiasm, trying to draw him in over and over. Now and then, my father would say with some exasperation, “Isn't it my turn yet?” “Almost, just a couple more people to go,” I answered. Men came into the shop, commented on how busy it was, and Larry said, “That's because it's Tuesday.” And then I remembered, it was the dark day at the track. Everyone had time on this day to get things done, like a haircut.</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yVWeOauj9Pw/WpipiF2a2NI/AAAAAAAAK_8/kLkciwKbQX0nZgBgfeW1OAz9eM3t3PAlQCLcBGAs/s1600/qm%2BIrv%2Bat%2BMoreau%2Bwith%2Bbouquet%2Bfor%2BEleanor%252C%2B10-2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yVWeOauj9Pw/WpipiF2a2NI/AAAAAAAAK_8/kLkciwKbQX0nZgBgfeW1OAz9eM3t3PAlQCLcBGAs/s320/qm%2BIrv%2Bat%2BMoreau%2Bwith%2Bbouquet%2Bfor%2BEleanor%252C%2B10-2014.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Irv picks a colored-leaf bouquet for my mother when we walk at Moreau State Park, age 90)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The shop was boisterous. The men were talking about sports. A few mild swear words sprinkled their and Mike's conversation. Larry looked at me. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Sometimes they get excited and don't think about how they talk.” “Oh no!” I said, “it's okay.” After all, I was the interloper in this masculine scene.</div>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_cskFOzmQno/Wpiw-U8lWpI/AAAAAAAALBA/P5Ypxhv7XNQVgfWPPWt3jgvhYSRBHj_zgCLcBGAs/s1600/eg%2BIrv%2Band%2BEleanor%252C%2BSpring%2BFamily%2BDinner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1540" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_cskFOzmQno/Wpiw-U8lWpI/AAAAAAAALBA/P5Ypxhv7XNQVgfWPPWt3jgvhYSRBHj_zgCLcBGAs/s320/eg%2BIrv%2Band%2BEleanor%252C%2BSpring%2BFamily%2BDinner.jpg" width="308" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(My parents celebrating their 65th wedding anniversary, April 2017)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Christmas rolled around. I convinced my father to go to the barbershop for his Christmas haircut. The</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
shop was packed. I counted how many people were ahead of us. Mike had a heavily-bearded man in his chair. The man told how he used to be Santa Claus for his children and grandchildren, who were all grown up now. I watched Mike trim the man's beard. It looked good, and I thought of my husband, Bill, who struggled to trim his large beard evenly. Mike told a funny story about his five-year-old son, who thought he was helping Santa Claus by making a list of all the naughty children in his kindergarten class. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When my father's turn came to sit in Larry's chair, we, too, talked about Christmas. Larry asked my father about his Christmas plans and my father talked about having everyone to the house and my mother doing all the cooking. Larry looked at me, sensing this might not be quite accurate. I said, below my father's hearing, “We'll come get my parents and bring them to our house. They come with us.” Larry nodded.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
One of the men who came through the door was a good friend of my father's. “Tom!” I said. I rarely<br />
saw Tom and he was such a nice man. “Virginia?” Tom's questioning tone reminded me that my presence in the barbershop might seem a little unusual. “Yes! And here's my father,” I said, pointing to his back in the chair. Apparently, Tom knew everyone else, too, as the volume rose with pleasant greetings. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Tom took his hat off. Three inches of white hair stood straight up. I glanced at Larry, laughed, and said, “Tom needs a haircut!” When my father got out of the chair, he was excited to see Tom, and Christmas filled the crowded barbershop. Larry escorted us to the door, put one arm around me and the other around my father. He said to my father, “Make sure you come and see me in the new year.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-laiRRxzTqzc/Wpirl4EfjWI/AAAAAAAALAU/lnNUzpThuRUR8XmZQhmShAqb7IhJhwCwQCLcBGAs/s1600/cna.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-laiRRxzTqzc/Wpirl4EfjWI/AAAAAAAALAU/lnNUzpThuRUR8XmZQhmShAqb7IhJhwCwQCLcBGAs/s320/cna.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Many thanks to Larry, whose kind manner and congenial barbershop made taking my father for a haircut my favorite task over two years.</div>
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Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8252010549521656207.post-35610621562563679722018-03-14T16:29:00.003-04:002018-03-14T16:29:54.483-04:00Mount Van Hoevenberg -- Winter<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fckpiz28mEw/WqCT8BgKN-I/AAAAAAAALBg/ys4LEx6pOFwhThk63CiIjLxmxB8dIFX9wCLcBGAs/s1600/1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fckpiz28mEw/WqCT8BgKN-I/AAAAAAAALBg/ys4LEx6pOFwhThk63CiIjLxmxB8dIFX9wCLcBGAs/s320/1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Virginia on the summit of Mount Van Hoevenberg)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I had been excited about hiking Mount Van Hoevenberg for days. It felt like forever since the June solo trip I made here while I was recovering from Lyme disease. (see my blog post http://nooksandvales.blogspot.com/2017/07/lyme-escape-mount-van-hoevenberg.html) On that day, I told myself that I would return to lead an Adirondack Mountain Club (ADK) trip in the winter and now, I couldn't wait.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SEBpig9wQCE/WqCT8p1Qt2I/AAAAAAAALBo/aXWNrl2cSZwX-9NdaHMWTK43zbJIH7GdwCLcBGAs/s1600/2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SEBpig9wQCE/WqCT8p1Qt2I/AAAAAAAALBo/aXWNrl2cSZwX-9NdaHMWTK43zbJIH7GdwCLcBGAs/s320/2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Frozen pond with Mt. Van Ho in the background)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I had decided to ask fellow ADK leader and friend, John, to co-lead the trip with me. I said, "I want to share the responsibility of making decisions about winter driving and trail conditions." John agreed in seconds. <br />
<br />
True to his good leadership, John and his wife scouted out the trail on their own and hiked Mt. Van Ho just days before our scheduled adventure. "There was some ice and some mud," he reported, "but nothing that would prohibit us from having a good day."<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ETFY3-n-kaA/WqCT_nl_PsI/AAAAAAAALBs/go9BrYPjKAo2FhlhgXumxU8AIyQwTjS9ACLcBGAs/s1600/3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ETFY3-n-kaA/WqCT_nl_PsI/AAAAAAAALBs/go9BrYPjKAo2FhlhgXumxU8AIyQwTjS9ACLcBGAs/s320/3.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Our group ascends the mountain)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
For two days, my friend, Karen, sent me emails from her north country "spies," people she knew who lived in the mountains and could give "on the ground reports." Ice in quantity, and treacherous trails, were phrases that repeated from one email to the next.<br />
<br />
ADK participants emailed me about joining the trip. I told them to bring microspikes for the ice.<br />
<br />
The day before the outing, I called the High Peaks Information Center. "There's a few inches of fresh powder," the respondent told me. His voice had a touch of annoyance. How many phone calls had he had like mine? "So microspikes will do?" I asked. "As long as there's less than 8 inches of snow," he added. Department of Environmental Conservation regulation in the Eastern
High Peaks area requires snowshoes if there are eight or more inches of
snow. <br />
<br />
I told our participants to bring snowshoes just in case.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y9Cn8xoVHGk/WqCUyuUiOPI/AAAAAAAALCY/deeLisGa3uUeT6I8Se9-zW1p6Jx_pmjtwCLcBGAs/s1600/DSC03500.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y9Cn8xoVHGk/WqCUyuUiOPI/AAAAAAAALCY/deeLisGa3uUeT6I8Se9-zW1p6Jx_pmjtwCLcBGAs/s320/DSC03500.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(We have to duck under laden boughs on the trail)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In three cars, our group of ten headed up the Northway. A heavy wet
snow had fallen in much of the state a few days' previous, but the north
country had gotten little. We lamented the dull brown terrain as we passed Lake George, Warrensburg, and North Hudson, on our journey north.
"But it's always beautiful, regardless, right?" Karen said with a hopeful sigh. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_UDxfbAJjxA/WqCUCKlZlEI/AAAAAAAALBw/ERdiNLd2A8IJfmo9zCSTAaKl2l6EQ_4pwCLcBGAs/s1600/4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_UDxfbAJjxA/WqCUCKlZlEI/AAAAAAAALBw/ERdiNLd2A8IJfmo9zCSTAaKl2l6EQ_4pwCLcBGAs/s320/4.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(The dark area is where the trail comes out of the forest to an expansive view)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
We entered Keene Valley, and continued on into Keene and close to Lake Placid. Snow began to appear in the woods and fields. Powdery snow. Drop-dead gorgeous snow. We turned into the Adirondak Loj Road and the powder deepened. We peered out the car windows, enthralled by trees coated in thick white. Who could have imagined this winter wonderland? When we arrived at the trailhead, John got out, scuffed the snow with his boot, and determined that, yes! snowshoes would be the footwear of the day.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vtrm2KPkWZg/WqCUDZi2aHI/AAAAAAAALB0/pvwRxoGuL30XfZs94av1bSdn5vowItpXQCLcBGAs/s1600/5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vtrm2KPkWZg/WqCUDZi2aHI/AAAAAAAALB0/pvwRxoGuL30XfZs94av1bSdn5vowItpXQCLcBGAs/s320/5.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Filigreed snow decorates summit trees)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
John said, "This is a different world from just a few days ago when I was here with my wife." <br />
<br />
I don't think I have ever seen ten people so unanimously happy about a serendipitous day.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jj4gIIkU60o/WqCUD17lz6I/AAAAAAAALB4/rAULk1GcBtYTpg_vd5fEr2tTfmPnBBPGACLcBGAs/s1600/6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jj4gIIkU60o/WqCUD17lz6I/AAAAAAAALB4/rAULk1GcBtYTpg_vd5fEr2tTfmPnBBPGACLcBGAs/s320/6.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Clouds hang on the peaks)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--XNnaLAhMEI/WqCUD7T7RjI/AAAAAAAALB8/DE1tqQ7UZuMTiru4c0Kltw2Wuxyj5x_uQCLcBGAs/s1600/7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1086" data-original-width="1600" height="217" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--XNnaLAhMEI/WqCUD7T7RjI/AAAAAAAALB8/DE1tqQ7UZuMTiru4c0Kltw2Wuxyj5x_uQCLcBGAs/s320/7.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(this June view shows the peaks under high fair-weather clouds)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Just one lingering thought niggled at the back of my mind. I said, "I will be a little disappointed if I get to the summit and we can't see the peaks." Mount Van Hoevenberg boasts views of at least a dozen high peaks. Seeing all those snow-covered mountains would be almost as good as being on one of them.<br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DHfyfvRBeCU/WqCUGArJKpI/AAAAAAAALCA/kshdM87L8TMk5pFlZgGTjwQJ6RNnIuxRQCLcBGAs/s1600/8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DHfyfvRBeCU/WqCUGArJKpI/AAAAAAAALCA/kshdM87L8TMk5pFlZgGTjwQJ6RNnIuxRQCLcBGAs/s320/8.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Karen in a winter wonderland)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I ate my words. I was not disappointed. We couldn't see the tops of the high peaks, but it didn't matter. Instead, we could see an intricate variation of texture in the snow-covered hills and valleys in front of us. The scene made me wonder how many of the supposed 50 words for snow Arctic people could identify here, in what almost seemed to be a picture etched in black-and-white.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JFKL9CIe10Y/WqCUIggJKdI/AAAAAAAALCE/yl2LYF1N8xo2ysu7Xhp_dUas6hm1t3IbQCLcBGAs/s1600/9.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JFKL9CIe10Y/WqCUIggJKdI/AAAAAAAALCE/yl2LYF1N8xo2ysu7Xhp_dUas6hm1t3IbQCLcBGAs/s320/9.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Snowy textures are fascinating)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
We took photos of the views and of each other. Some people continued on, hoping to find more viewpoints beyond the two we had come upon. Others listened to John read from pages he had copied describing the geological and historical significance of this mountain. <br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s4_-fGkzqkg/WqCT8FG3AVI/AAAAAAAALBk/S33DYaFmIpYeLuPQXi2V2ilq-wx-IYKdACLcBGAs/s1600/11.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s4_-fGkzqkg/WqCT8FG3AVI/AAAAAAAALBk/S33DYaFmIpYeLuPQXi2V2ilq-wx-IYKdACLcBGAs/s320/11.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(John regales the group with interesting information)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
Over lunch, sitting in the summit powder, one person said, "If we could see the tops of the snow-covered peaks with a clear sky, it would probably be too windy to sit here." "That's right," another added. "We would have to go back into the trees for shelter." We had a glorious and highly satisfactory view. I was just one of ten in harmony with the serenity of this early March day.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6nDMFn-FZOo/WqM8e1CgIDI/AAAAAAAALCo/KethsYyPfM0mLg26At9XRJnxpUo1CZetACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_2290.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6nDMFn-FZOo/WqM8e1CgIDI/AAAAAAAALCo/KethsYyPfM0mLg26At9XRJnxpUo1CZetACLcBGAs/s320/IMG_2290.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Can't beat this lunch location!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
We began to feel a chill -- time to begin our descent. Our snowshoes glided along the path we had made earlier. We continued to admire the snowy woods, but when we reached the pond, we decided that the scene had been prettier on the way up before the light had changed in the course of the day.<br />
<br />
Sometimes on a hike, I have to remind participants to look around and take in the beauty of the landscape. Not this group. Every member had been attuned to the exceptional surroundings and camaraderie on Mount Van Hoevenberg.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-avKk2_ucHqM/WqM-b26TTQI/AAAAAAAALC0/ybvZKbvyjV8uUrBhf5k-55okhy6DBG03wCLcBGAs/s1600/DSC03484.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-avKk2_ucHqM/WqM-b26TTQI/AAAAAAAALC0/ybvZKbvyjV8uUrBhf5k-55okhy6DBG03wCLcBGAs/s320/DSC03484.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Virginiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00622481963038249396noreply@blogger.com3