Musical Notes

I spot my parents sitting next to Bill in the audience. I'm not sure they will like the selections of this concert, but they are here, as they almost always are. At intermission, I have a few minutes to talk to them.



"I don't know why you didn't think we would like this program," my mother says. "It's wonderful and very lively." That was true. Brahms' Festival Overture is fast, loud, and full of life.



My father adds, "I was watching your bow and the bow of the man sitting next to you, and I would say that you were going in the same direction about 94-95% of the time." This was a compliment. With multiple snow days before this concert, our sections' bowings were thrown together at the last minute.

For 45 years, my parents, who have never been students of classical music, have attended my concerts as often as they could. Besides Bill, they are my biggest fans.


Sometimes it is good to look back and see who has influenced us to become the person we are today, and what situations came together and gave us opportunities. I was fortunate to have parents who encouraged me to try things in school, then paid for my private lessons, and bought my first violin.


But there were others who influenced me as well. My grandfather always lamented that he didn't have more opportunities as a child. He struggled to play hymns and turn-of-the-20th-century show tunes on the piano, and described trying to teach himself to play in the unheated front room of the Catskill farmhouse where he grew up.


When I said that I was going to take violin lessons, Grandpa told me that the violin was the "most beautiful and most difficult instrument to play in the world." He impressed on me how lucky I was and always asked me to play for him. He was also patriarchal. Since I was the second grandchild and did not look like his side of the family, I had to work harder to please him. His approval meant that I could never quit the violin.



I soared ahead of my peers when I began taking private lessons in the summer with Peggy. Peggy lived down the street and came to our house during her summer breaks from college. After the first summer, my parents agreed to give me year-round private lessons.


Very short with a pear shape, Peggy always arrived late for my Saturday morning lessons. Sometimes we had to call her house and ask her mother to wake her up. Peggy would hurry up the sidewalk full of apologies with the aroma of a quick cup of coffee on her breath. We loved her bubbly personality, easy laugh, and the comfortable way she would poke her face into the kitchen to see what my mother was doing, complimenting each of us and our home with every step.



The violin seemed so easy when Peggy played it. She would demonstrate how I should sound and I knew that I wanted to sound just like her. But sometimes she became frustrated as we labored over my Handel Sonata, trying everything she could think of to help me stick to the beat. Still, as she went out the door, her parting words were always ones of encouragement.



Since we didn't have a piano, occasionally Peggy would invite me to her house so that we could work on my sonatas with accompaniment. What an adventure! Her mother's upright piano was piled high with music books. Stacks of papers topped by a pot of earth and a long-dead plant stood leaning at the end of the piano. Peggy's six siblings' instrument cases stood at odd angles or lay within tripping distance on the floor. One time a nearby carton provided a nest for new kittens.

I watched Peggy's hands glide effortlessly across the piano keys. "Oh," she would say, "I'm not a real pianist. I only had twelve years of lessons!"


When I entered high school, Peggy moved to Boston to pursue her Master's Degree at New England Conservatory. I no longer had a private teacher. Lack of consistent practice, a competitiveness with other students, and high school insecurities played out in orchestra, despite the efforts of a dynamic young orchestra director.


My mother tried to soothe my battered nerves by telling me that I should not expect to compete with other students who came from musical families, and that violin would always be a nice hobby for me. This did not make me feel better. I wanted to be taken seriously.

If I ever had to play in front of anyone, my hands would begin to shake, sending my bow bouncing in uncontrolled scratching across the strings. One day Peggy stopped by while visiting her parents. She could see that I was struggling, and said, "Just stay with it until college. You'll love playing in a college orchestra."



She was right. In college I took lessons, quartet, string ensemble, and played in the Catskill Symphony. I had friendly stand-partners and relished the symphonies that we played. I corrected bad habits, and, once again, considered the violin part of my identity. Still, if I had to play alone, nerves made the bow jump around on the strings. Ensemble playing was where I belonged. My parents drove out for the annual "Cabaret" concert, sitting at cafe tables with drinks and snacks, listening to more casual music that they recognized. They stayed at the Holiday Inn and took Bill and me out for dinner. In the end, I took so many performance credits that I graduated a semester early.

After getting married and moving to the Capital District, I played in the RPI orchestra, then the SUNY Albany orchestra. I stopped when Thomas began private violin lessons at age 6 and Meredith began the same year, beginning piano at age 4. I was intent on having a musical family, and Bill added his support.

Now I play in Schenectady Symphony and at Union College with excellent music directors. In addition, my friend, Cathy, and I have spent more than twenty years rehearsing weekly, and have worked through the entire piano and violin sonata catalogues of Corelli, Haydn, and Mozart, with a sprinkling of other composers along the way.

In the 1990s, we began playing at Barnes & Noble in Colonie where I worked. Bill brought Thomas and Meredith, and my parents came down from Saratoga. For fun, we added Irish ballads performing entire St. Patrick's Day programs for ten years. My father would say, "That other music is good, but this is my kind of music!" My mother said, "I like everything."

Nerves no longer make my bow jump across the strings, but, yes, sometimes Cathy and I still deal with my occasional erratic rhythms. I continue to learn about music wherever I play, even picking up tips from my musical adult children. I like to think that I get better every year.

Snow, Snow, and More Snow!

Dylan Thomas wrote, in 1954, "I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve, or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six."

What are we going for--twelve days and twelve nights? thirty days and thirty nights??? And how do we remember our childhoods?

(Photo: A white Christmas, and a whiter New Year's!)

I remember my childhood much like this winter. We have not seen grass at our house since mid-December. Granted, our "white Christmas" was only a couple of inches, but the day after Christmas, we got our first big snow and it has been snowing ever since. Every few days, another four to six inches.

Here in Albany, we have not had just one or two 20-inchers. Instead regular fresh coatings have kept the streets and sidewalks white, and the snowbanks have been growing ever higher.

(Photo: Every few days a fresh coat of white)

Not only that, Winter 2010-2011 has been cold. Winters were cold in my childhood too. I remember walking to school, in my miniskirts (pants were not allowed for girls until I was in 8th grade) in subzero temperatures, my knees purple.

(Photo: "As long as the bird feeder is full, I really don't see a problem.")

We expected cold from mid-December until at least mid-February, when my mother would say, "There won't be much skating after Valentine's Day when the sun gets high enough to soften the ice."

And groundhog day? I was always confused. I thought six more weeks of Winter meant Spring would come soon. In Saratoga, Spring never came as early as late March. There were always piles of snow left at the corners of the yard at Easter. We expected Spring in late April.

(Photo: Anyone for a picnic?)

Like Dylan Thomas, I might not remember things exactly as they were, but I know we in Northeast sure have had an old-fashioned winter this year, and we're enjoying it. There have been snowshoeing opportunities galore. We're going cross-country skiing this week and conditions should be some of the best ever.

(Photo: Destinations like Shippee's Ledge can't be beat.)

I even spent a day in New York City, where watching residents enjoy their city was all the entertainment I needed.

(Photo: Families sledding in Central Park, New York City's back yard.)

(Photo: Perfect day for a sleigh ride.)

Oh, the day will come when the thermometer hits fifty degrees, and the sun will make us say, "it feels like Spring!" Someday, we will see grass at the edge of the driveway, and sniff the smell of wet earth. Early flowers will begin to bloom. But for now, those little Spring bulbs are sound asleep under a few feet of snow.

(Photo: Is there really green under there???)

Last Wednesday, when the Northeast shut down due to extreme weather, Bill and I began the day with pancakes. After shovelling, we made Castillian Hot Cocoa. Bill said, "Hibernating could have its drawbacks!" But who cared?--an extra pound or two would be tomorrow's problem.

Our new gas furnace kept us comfy, the view out the window was white from top to bottom, we had a list of indoor tasks, and the library had provided us with good books to read.

And, if there are six more weeks of winter, we'll be thrilled when the earth begins to awaken and Spring makes its appearance. In the meantime, Happy February to all my readers!

Le Francais, Madame?!

The professor begins with a volley of words, all in French. What an introduction! I am pleased that I can understand everything he is saying. In minutes he has the students engaged, and responding. This is going to be a lively, fast-paced class; I am already having fun, even though I am older than most of these students' parents. The time flies by, and snippets of what I used to know are returning.

Deciding to take French at the College of St. Rose was a fairly spontaneous conclusion to a long thought process. Initial prompting came from travel. Bill and I have been fortunate to take a few trips to Europe. Each time, I am impressed with how adept Europeans are with language. In the countries we have visited people speak three, and often five, languages with ease. Since English is always one of them, we, as Americans, can get along fine without worrying about being understood.

While being able to default to English is easy, it makes us seem narrow. The U.S. is so large that we don't need to know other languages, and often, we expect anyone anywhere to be able to cater to our inability to meet others in their native tongue.



Since I could, at one time, speak French satisfactorily, a couple of years ago I thought I should see how much I remembered. I got a set of CDs out of the library entitled, "Learn French in Your Car," and played them on my many trips to Schenectady for orchestra rehearsals. I discovered that I still knew quite a bit, although I had forgotten a lot of vocabulary and was unsure of verb tenses. Still, alone in the car, I passed the time chatting away with the CDs.



This past September, Bill and I went to Belgium. I determined that I would at least attempt to converse in French when the opportunity arose in the French sections of Belgium.



The first time I tried, I asked a waitress for a breakfast table in the hotel diningroom, and she responded to me in English. I had spent ten minutes planning my approach and here I stood, deflated, as if she might have said, "Give it up. I'm better at this than you are."



The second time, we were in the town of Mons, famous as the place where the final shot of World War I was fired. Bill and I entered a tiny shop for a cone of fries. Belgian (and Dutch) frites are not to be passed up. A pleasant young man stood behind the counter and I easily asked for a petit cone of frites. I was pleased when he seemed to understand me, until he asked me what kind of sauce I wanted on them. Before this encounter, I had again spent considerable time forming my request in my mind, but now I needed a response! I stared blankly. Finally, seeing my quandary, he pointed to the toppings, saying their names. Of course, I said, "may-oh-naze." Mayonnaise is the traditional condiment.



Despite my low-level ability, I felt good about this exchange and was willing to try once more before we left the French section of Belgium. In a short-order restaurant, I managed to order a Pepsi for me, a Belgian beer for Bill, and to hand over the appropriate amount of money.



When I got home, my efforts seemed a little pathetic, and certainly unnecessary, since I could have spoken English in every case. At the same time, Bill began to suggest that I take advantage of one of the benefits he receives as an employee of the College of St. Rose. He encouraged me to audit a class, something I could do for free.



I have always said that I would enjoy being a lifetime student, but I never really thought seriously about courses available at St. Rose. Bill said, "you should." So I brought the Spring course listings up on the computer. I would take music history, I thought, but quickly discovered that music history classes really should be taken in order, from Fall to Spring. My cursor jumped to French.



At eleven years old, I had begun French in seventh grade and continued through twelfth grade, with a wonderful teacher for three of the years, Alan Remaley. He ran the class like a drill sergeant (claiming to have been one before becoming a teacher), but with a sideways smile of amusement under his thick black mustache. To his credit, in the years since high school, I have discovered that he was one of two teachers who most influenced me, the other being my orchestra teacher (of course!).




In college, I took French Conversation and loved it. At every class, the professor assigned a topic for the day's discussion and we chatted around a conference table. I remember being more intimidated by some of the topic choices than I was using the French language. The discussion etched in my mind forever was "Henry Kissinger's post-Vietnam activity" (it was 1976). When I finally came up with something to say from my limited knowledge of foreign policy, another student, a recent Vietnamese refugee, glared at me. Speaking in French was the easy part! Most of the time we were assigned light topics and we had a good time in class.



Reinforcing it all, were conversations with my housemate, Sandra. When alone in our house, we walked around chatting and singing in French, calling out phrases and tunes, flaws and all, but forging ahead in our second language.



It helped that Sandra was, and still is, a fearless conversationalist. It did not surprise me, when, shortly after college, she reported visiting Montreal and having a complete dialogue with French-speaking Canadians in the hotel pool. I would not have spoken, in a pool, English or French!



I'll say just a few words about one of my best friends of 35 years. Sandra is a high-energy, quick and intelligent woman, who approaches life with optimism and flair. Thin and stylish, she walks at high speed and does everything with a lively efficiency. These days, we get together about four times a year for lunch at BFS on Western Avenue.



When Sandra gets out of her car, she greets me with genuine sincerity. In one breath, she walks toward me, saying, "Virginia, how are you? Isn't this weather gorgeous? You know I love the hot weather. When we were up north this summer, we went in the water more than ever, but the river was very low. Did you and Meredith hike up north? I know you don't like the heat. It's so great to see you. How are you?" I do not break in. Instead, I laugh and take one question at a time to begin our visit, which usually lasts two or three hours.



This past September, just days after Bill and I had been to Belgium, Sandra and her husband headed off to the French Riviera. She and I had discussed my attempts at speaking French, so I was eager to hear how she made out trying her French in France. After all, she had rarely spoken the language in decades either.



"Oh, well," she said. "It went okay. I just walked into stores, would see a salesperson and start talking."



"What did you say?" I asked, remembering my attempts in restaurants.



"I walked right up to the person, and said 'Hello, how are you? I hope you are fine. It's a lovely day. Can you show me that very pretty blue sweater over there?' And then the salesperson would go along with me and we'd work out a conversation together. I did this everywhere I went."



Who could resist Sandra? I could picture her, always in spike heels and skinny jeans (from her vacation photos, I saw that she wore lime green shoes with pointed toes and heels, even on cobblestone), striding into the shop, all smiles and energy, speaking the language of the natives.



I knew that my self-consciousness impeded my ability. Maybe if I regained my previous skill, I could feel comfortable approaching people. In fact, although I hope to go to France someday, my interest in relearning French is not only about travel. It is also about being a more well-rounded American, and finding a part of myself that I have lost, much like adults who take piano lessons after decades of letting the instrument languish unused in their homes.



This week, I came back to the classroom.

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year 2011! Bill and I continued an annual tradition (now five years for us) of going on a New Year's Eve snowshoe outing led by Herb Terns and his wife, Gillian Scott, of the Schenectady Adirondack Mountain Club. What a way to usher in the new year--a foot and a half of snow, unusually warm temperatures, hiking under a sky filled with millions of stars, and a summit ranger welcoming us with a heated cabin and refreshments!

As I look back, my first New Year's Eves were not so festive. Left home with Jean Ann, our babysitter, my sister and I would be bored. Jean Ann was no fun. To liven things up, we would sneak down the stairs to spy on her, but even that was dull. She sat on the couch, watched television, somehow seemed to always know we were there, and shooed us back to bed.

Morning on New Year's Day was much better. My parents would bring home intriguing party favors. Besides the usual roll-up blow horns, sometimes there were plastic cocktail monkeys and tiny paper umbrellas. We hung the monkeys on our juice glasses at breakfast and gave the umbrellas to our dolls. But we wondered, what did our parents do at those parties in their fancy clothes, my mother in a dress she had been sewing for weeks?

After playing with the favors, we looked forward to outdoor family time. My father worked six days a week managing the J.J. Newbery & Co. store in downtown Saratoga. Despite having been out into the wee hours partying, he was not about to squander a bonus day off. We usually went sledding at Kayaderos Park, ice skating on Lake George, or skiing at Willard Mountain.

Time passed, and Bill and I were just six months married when the calendar turned from 1979 to 1980. With equally newlywed friends who lived in Prattsville, just up the road from us in Acra, a hamlet of 400 in the Catskills, we rang in the new year in style. At our one bedroom apartment, we ate vegetarian soup and bread for dinner, and, in the morning, Bill's Tassajara pancakes fortified us for a New Year's Day hike up snowy Black Dome Mountain, a Catskill high peak. "The perfect way to ring in a new decade," we all agreed. The 80s were sure to bring good times, health, and happiness.

(photos: David Vos, Bill, Virginia, Rachel Vos; Black Dome on 1-1-80)

And they did. The 80s were busy with the arrival of Thomas and Meredith. We expected and desired little from New Year's Eve. For the next twenty years, we watched the festivities in Times Square on our little TV, the kids joining us when they were old enough. Staying up until midnight with crackers, cheese, and soda, made us all feel part of the celebration until we tumbled, exhausted, into bed.

But the kids grew up. They left us in the dust. Eventually they moved out, celebrating in New York City where they now lived. The first two years that they were really out of the house, Thomas called us at home just a minute or two after midnight to wish us a Happy New Year. Of course we were home to receive the call. Where else would we be?

Then Herb and Gillian rescued us from a future of New Year's Eves watching the ball drop with Dick Clark on Channel 13. Now we are not only not at home when the kids call (although we're thrilled that they still do remember us within the first hour after midnight), but we are not even in cell phone range. We're out on the trail, in the snow, ringing in the new year on top of Beebe Hill in Austerlitz, New York, in the foothills of the Berkshires.

(photo: Gillian Scott, Herb Terns)

With or without snow, in temperatures ranging from zero to forty degrees, we're out there. The size of the group fluctuates with the weather. Sixteen of us rang in 2011 last night, and Herb reported having to turn additional hopeful participants away. With about 16 inches of snow remaining from the 20 that arrived earlier in the week, we knew the hike would appear as a scene from an outdoor magazine.

To add to our pleasure this year and last, my favorite sister-in-law (okay, my only sister-in-law) and her family came along. Teenagers Sara and Carly chatted with the other participants, and Michael and I searched the sky for the Milky Way. Everyone stood in awe of the star-filled sky, and, when we listened closely, we could hear the sound of fireworks coming from a distant town.

(photo: Carly, Sara, Michael, and Mary Jo Bashant)

As we reached the summit of the small mountain, we smelled woodsmoke and followed ski tracks to the ranger cabin. The ranger had the woodstove puffing away, and fixings for sloppy joes, made from venison he had hunted, ready on the table for anyone who arrived hungry. He regaled us with stories of working in this area and also of his years at Lake Colden, deep in the Adirondack High Peaks.

True to tradition, Herb had carried a bottle of champagne to the summit. Gillian brought homemade brownies. With a countdown just after midnight (we missed midnight, caught up in our own revelry), Herb toasted the New Year and we held our plastic glasses up into the darkness. Finally, even on this warm night, we began to feel chilly standing outside in the snow. With our headlamps glowing, we turned back to the trail for the hike down.

By the time we got home it was 2:15 a.m.! Whew, what stay-outs we have become. A voicemail from Meredith and a text from Thomas, who were both celebrating with friends and loved ones at house parties in the city, greeted us.

And what will Bill and I do on this New Year's Day since we've already been out in the snow early this morning? We have chosen to head over to the Troy Music Hall and hear the Berkshire Bach Society play their New Year's Day Bach concert; and a simple dinner of sandwiches from the Christmas turkey will round out this holiday season.

Here's to a new year filled with friends, family, good food, outdoor fun, great health, and all the things anyone can think of to add to the list. Best New Year's wishes to my readers!

Thanksgivings Past

My childhood Thanksgivings began with the two-hour drive from our house in Saratoga to my grandparents' home in the Berkshires.

My grandfather had converted a small cottage with expert craftsmanship. Every aspect of the house had been analyzed or changed to reflect his passion to mold a home into the rural landscape.

Opening the door into the tiny kitchen, my sister and I first sensed the aroma of the gas stove, next the smell of the turkey roasting.

Tradition dictated that my grandfather carve the turkey at the table, giving my grandmother the first portions and then going in order of women, oldest to youngest, and then men, oldest to youngest. With only seven people in attendance, the process didn't keep us from eating for long.

I loved Thanksgiving, but how could I not--it was wrapped up in my birthday!

The party was for me and I had the chocolate cake to prove it, until my grandmother (according to my mother) tactfully told my mother that birthday cake after a complete Thanksgiving dinner was just too much.

After that, dessert was pumpkin pie, made in an 8x8 inch square pan. No one remembers why Grandma made pumpkin pie in a square. She didn't make apple pie in a square, but that is how my childhood Thanksgivings went--one pie, plenty for only seven people, baked in a square.

But what to do about the birthday? Candles could go in anything. Certainly they worked well in pumpkin pie, but when they turned up in the stuffed celery during the cocktail hour, or in little hot dogs with American cheese on a cracker, a new tradition was born.

To make my Thanksgiving birthday even better, my grandmother's birthday was two days before mine. Sometimes one of our birthdays fell on the actual day of Thanksgiving. Definitely an excuse for more celebration. And candles had found a permanent home in the appetizers. (note them flaming on the tray table in the photo)

My grandmother, affectionately called "pleasingly plump" by my grandfather, was warm, snuggly, and covered in large Irish freckles. What I wouldn't give to see all these people with adult eyes, when the "old" relatives were only in their sixties. Just five minutes to view this scene in a home I have cherished in my memory for decades.

Time passed and traditions changed. Only twice have Bill and I had Thanksgiving in our own home. The first time was in 1984 with Meredith just days from being born. My mother said, "we will bring Thanksgiving to you." And they all came, the same seven people from my childhood, along with Bill, Thomas at two years old, and my nephew, Daniel. My mother brought the turkey and put it in the oven at my house. There would soon be a new birthday to combine with my own.

We were snowed in the second time we had Thanksgiving at home. We had planned to be with Bill's family, but the forecast had been dire all week. My father called, "Don't worry if you can't get to the Catskills. You can be with us so you won't be alone." Fortunately, I had bought a chicken to roast. No one went anywhere. Snow came down in big flakes across the entire Northeast all day.

In time, the holiday had a constant place in my parents' Saratoga home. To a new set of grandchildren, "going to Grandma's" now meant going there. My mother had name cards on the table cut from colored paper in the shape of oak leaves and plastic pumpkins filled with candy corn next to each plate.

Eventually, my sister's and my combined families numbered six children, and the house was filled with activity as the turkey roasted, glasses were filled, and good wishes toasted. Birthday candles began to appear again, sometimes in the appetizers, sometimes in the pie (now made in a circle).

Last year, in their new home, my parents had the holiday as they have for years. A couple of the grandchildren could no longer come, but new significant others joined the group. My mother now has a gas stove, and when I walk in, I smell the aromas of my childhood Thanksgivings---the stove and the turkey.

My mother always teases that she is going to "drink heavily" and may ruin the meal (a whiskey sour, her drink of choice), and in the next breath insists that Bill will have to carve the turkey despite having had a manhattan.

And the candles? My sister stood them in the appetizers.

My mother claims that this Thanksgiving will be the last one she and my father will host. She also told me that since my birthday is three days after the holiday, we would not have candles. What could I say except, "At my advanced age (turning 54), I'll try to handle it!"

I am thankful that both of my parents, at ages 85 and 86, are in their home and able to celebrate another year with all of us. I am thankful that my children are well and happy. Thomas and Marlie will be with her family for the day, and Meredith with us. My sister and her growing family will bring a new baby.

And when the day is over and we are all full of turkey and stuffing and pie, we will go home. Thomas and Marlie will arrive for the weekend, and Meredith and I will have a shared birthday celebration on Sunday with chocolate cake.

Zim Smith Trail

With all the press recently about a new section of the Zim Smith rail trail opening, Bill and I decided to check it out. In fact, we had never done the old section. Originally a six-mile bike ride, the Zim Smith trail seemed too short to be worth loading the bike on the car and driving up the Northway. Now, with two additional miles, we figured we would give it a chance at 16 miles round trip, beginning in Halfmoon and ending in Ballston Spa.



Finding the trailhead took a bit of research. We chose to begin our ride at Coons Crossing, the southernmost end of the trail and not far from Exit 10. We discovered, after driving by twice, that no signs of any kind mark Coons Crossing. At the junction of Ushers Road and Cary Road, just beyond railroad tracks we saw a road sign denoting a bike crossing. A car parked in a pull-off, the obvious beginning of a trail, and a barricade to motor vehicles made it clear that we had found our trailhead, but what about that blank kiosk?


The beginning older section of the trail is not paved, but the hard-packed gravel on a solid base gave me no trouble on my road bike. Passing next to marshes and the back yards of lovely homes, a few grasses, oaks, and sumacs lent a final flash of autumn color on this gray November-like Saturday.

















With temperatures in the 40s, We started off wearing a hat under our helmets, mittens, and a scarf. I remembered what biking was like in chilly weather last Spring, and I wasn't planning to be uncomfortable. We soon warmed up and shed a few layers, even though the trail has only the slightest upgrade from south to north.




The middle section is paved and passes by a few parking locations, including Shenentaha Park where a playground and soccer field showed soggy evidence of recent heavy rains. To my surprise, the level yards and meadows along the trail turned into rugged ravines as we peddled. On the left narrow waterfalls cascaded through layers of sedimentary rock and woods, flowing into pretty creeks below to our right. An overpass for Route 9, another for the Round Lake Bypass, and an underpass for the Northway told us that we were quickly making our way towards our destination.



Continuing past the town of Round Lake, we eventually hit the new two miles of paved trail. While completely smooth and smelling of new tarmac, this is the least scenic part of the trip. (Bill, in the photo, is on the new section before we hit suburban development.) In no time we were in the middle of Curtis Lumber's storage area with the sour aroma of composting wood chips and next to live train tracks.

Advertising its "Halloween Hall," Curtis Lumber's version of Spiderman stood at the corner of route 67 playing an orange air-filled guitar and flagging people into the driveway with surprising enthusiasm. Stewart's, a few feet off the bike path, had three bikes parked nearby.

The trail ends at Oak Street, within a couple tenths of a mile to the intersection of East High Street. We discovered that this, in itself, is not a destination. However, the Village of Ballston Spa is just another six-tenths of a mile away. Lunch at one of the cute restaurants in town is a great option and would add just enough time and mileage to make this a full-day's outing.

We did not need lunch, but had brought a bottle of apple cider with us, so we turned around at Oak Street and headed back. Stopping at Shenentaha Park, we sat on a bench and had our drink. We also stopped at Round Lake on our return, riding our bikes through the charming village. Originally a Methodist Camp, Round Lake has narrow streets of ornate Victorian cottages and the perfectly restored auditorium which features concerts in the summer.











When we reached the unpaved section of trail, we were startled to see an ATV headed toward us. Even though it was traveling at a slow speed, it did not belong. Otherwise, our ride was pleasant and uneventful. We saw almost no one all day except for a few dog walkers and a handful of bikers.


Other trails in the Capital Region, such as those along the Mohawk or Hudson, offer greater scenic beauty, but this is a wonderful new option. We will definitely come back, next time bringing friends and planning lunch at the Whistling Kettle in Ballston Spa. Look for my ADK listing of an outing here next April!

Following the Foliage

My father "follows the foliage." Ideally, this means that in September, he would head north where the colors are first coming on, and then work his way South as the colored leaves move through the state. The plan never quite works out this way, but over a few weeks, depending on the weather, he catches as much of Autumn's brilliance as he can. And then there is that blessed time when it's right in his own yard.


I realized a few years ago that I am also nuts about colored leaves. Living within the city of Albany, where Norway maples make a good showing, but don't actually turn until mid to late October, I am on pins and needles that I might miss the colors elsewhere. I know that when I can see the leaves out my window, they will be down outside of the Hudson Valley. So I better get out even though it's still green at my house.

This year, I missed them in the northern Adirondacks, but with a week of blue-sky crisp days recently, I did what I could to satisfy my craving wherever I went. In Cooperstown a couple of weeks ago, heavy winds and rain had brought many leaves down, but here and there a few beautiful trees made me glad I was walking, not driving! Driving with my head swiveling from side to side is not recommended.

Not long after, I was visiting my parents in Saratoga. I had a few hours in the afternoon on a crisp 60 degree day. My father was ready in minutes when I suggested we go to nearby Shippee's Ledge, a mile-long walk with 250 feet elevation gain in the Town of Day. Shippee's Ledge has to be the biggest "bang for the buck." With views from a rocky promontory down to a branch of the Sacandaga, the half-hour hike on an old logging road is a perfect short outing.

On this day, clouds came and went. As each patch of blue opened and the colors below sparkled, another cloud followed. I had a hard time tearing my father away as he waited for "just one more" break of sun in the clouds. Watching the moving shadows on the hills, he would pick out a patch of color that he needed to see next in its sunlit glory. I had a rehearsal in the evening, and had to go. It took me a half hour to pull him away, and who wouldn't want to stay watching this brilliance return and retreat with each gap in the clouds?

My friend, Rachel, and I get together rarely for a hike. An Adirondack 46r and Northeast 114r, who feels like her hiking days now are very limited, she longs for more hiking opportunities. An annual family trip into Marcy Dam on Columbus Day keeps her hopes up that someday her young daughter will want to do the big mountains with her.

We set aside a day that proved to be cloudless and in the 50s, perfect hiking weather. On the phone, we decided that we would go "somewhere near Lake George." "Okay," I said, "I'll drive and you can study the book and map on the way." How could we go wrong on this day? Everyplace would be beautiful. We debated the East or West side of the lake, and chose the Tongue Mountain Range. Neither of us had been there in decades. It would be fun to explore and views would be crisp.

Despite not hiking often these days, Rachel is a fast and strong hiker. She is also a great conversationalist, so I let her talk, while I huff and puff behind her! Seriously, she sets a good pace, I get a workout, we catch up on the news, and we see some beautiful Adirondack scenery. Here she is on the overlook near Five Mile leanto looking West towards Gore Mt.

In fact, we didn't exactly know where we were going. We had missed the first trailhead and had begun at the northernmost part of the Tongue. Heading south, we were never sure when we had reached our destinations. Now we know--Five Mile Mountain is a great destination. Its rocky outcropping facing Lake George and looking East is a perfect lunch spot. We stood and admired the view and then said, "should we go farther?", "are we where we thought we should be?", "maybe the view opens up wider on a bigger summit."

We decided to go "just another half hour and then turn around." After a steady downhill, we turned around, and had our lunch overlooking hills of color. Back at Five Mile Mountain, we admired the green-blue of the lake, where one boat made a white trail below. Only large areas of evergreens broke the peak fall foliage.

The next day, we again had heavy rain and wind. Some of the leaves in my neighborhood blew off in swirls. But my Norway maples?--mostly still green. This year, we had to have one of the two maples in front of the house taken down, and the other lost a few big limbs. Usually, when the leaves have fallen off every tree in town, mine are bright yellow. In the upstairs bedrooms, on a sunny day, a soft yellow glow permeates the rooms. This year, I wonder, are there enough branches of the tree left to shed a glow inside the house?

I miss having two maples out front. I used to look up my street lined with gold. We do still have a mammoth maple in the back. The leaves from this tree, that I used to rake into monster mountains for the kids to jump in, now cover all of my gardens for the winter.

This season, I have done my best to "follow the foliage," and there is still more out there. The Northway in Colonie is a panorama of color, spots of brilliance line the Mohawk and Hudson Rivers, and glow in Washington Park. And when it is all gone, we'll have a period of brown and gray in the Northeast and then some snow. After that, I'll be marking my calendar for snowshoeing and cross-country skiing when the ground is covered in white and the sky is blue.