Still Hikin' at 88

Here I am on Balm of Gilead in North River, NY, with my father.  I have taken him on "birthday hikes" for many years, but who would have thought we'd still be hiking as he turned 88?!

I became my father's "hikin' buddy" back in 1971 when I was 14 and he took me up Mt. Marcy, my first Adirondack High Peak.  I thought I was going to die as we sweated our way up the trail, but it was worth it, when, besides the view, we found a patch of leftover snow.  I rubbed a handful across the back of my neck under my long braid.  Breezes cooled us, too. My favorite blue wool sweater felt great.

Now when I look back, I wonder how we carried full packs over the peaks.  Here's my father in 1972 when he was 48.  He never wanted to descend the way we had gone up so we carried all of our gear over the peaks, camping on the other side to make a loop.

(this Adirondack-style bridge is new since we were here last year)

Over the decades we've covered a lot of trails, making a tradition of annual spring and fall day hikes, often fitting them in between many other commitments. This year we chose the one-mile hike up Balm of Gilead.  With 400 feet elevation gain, this rocky outcropping offers a fabulous view over Thirteenth Lake and surrounding mountains.

These days, my father's pace is understandably slow. Sometimes, now, I take my camera; regular intervals for pictures give my father an easy excuse to stop for breath without making him feel like he's holding me back.

Let me tell you about our day as we walk a Spring path through a woodland garden.

(Red Trillium)

This year, Bill joined us for the outing.  I told him, "Sometimes we stop on the way up north for coffee, and we stop on the way back for ice cream."  Even though I had packed a lunch tailor-made for my father including a roast beef and provolone sandwich with lettuce and tomato on rye, chips, an apple, and a brownie, extra treats were part of the fun.

(Trout Lily)

As predicted, we pulled into North Creek for our 10:30 a.m. stop at Marsha's Family Restaurant.  Marsha's is an Adirondack classic with a busy local clientele.  No "new American cuisine" here, just good old-fashioned diner options for a low price.  Coffee is $1.25, and we each had a muffin, also $1.25.  We didn't need a more substantial meal, having had breakfast at home, but plate after plate of eggs, bacon, and homefries came out of the kitchen for hungry patrons.  From North Creek, the Balm of Gilead trailhead at the Garnet Hill Ski Center parking lot is just a short distance away.

(a toad or a modern version of stegosaurus??)

Three years ago, at the age of 85, my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. At times he seems fine, but he is increasingly mixed up, and life at home is a trial of confusion over tasks that used to seem like nothing. What is particularly sad is that he knows what he is losing. Frustration is high and depression is frequent. 

(Bill and my father contemplate the huge pileated woodpecker holes in this downed tree)

But when he is out in the woods, he is very lucid.  He repeats sentences now and then, but his mind is sharp. I think nature is just working her magic.  My mother thinks his improved mental clarity outdoors is due to him having only one thing to focus on, exercise in a place he loves.  Either way, I see him at his best and am grateful for moments like this.

(fallen logs and glacial rock don't hold us back for long)

This day, my mother, just shy of her 87th birthday, chose not to join us.  She also is in excellent physical shape and could have hiked Balm of Gilead, but she needed some time for herself, knowing that my father was in good hands with us.

(my father loves "gear chat"--he and Bill discuss trekking poles)

My father talked of previous hikes here, such as during outings with his retired hiking group, the Crooked Canes. Looking down on Thirteenth Lake, he remembered days kayaking with the Canes on the cool clear mountain water.  He spoke of trips here with me in the past, when we saw turkey vultures flying below us as we sat on the rocks soaking up the Spring sun just as we were today.

(the view across Thirteenth Lake to Peaked Mt. shows us that Spring still has a ways to go)

Looking past the lake to Peaked Mountain beyond, he thought about the pristine wilderness ponds along that trail and how beautiful they are in the fall.  He was pleased with his ability to come here again.  "We've hiked to a lot of nice places, haven't we? When I'm gone, you can remember all the places you went with your old Pop," he said to me.  I was already remembering.

(with binoculars, we were able to see a few canoes and kayaks on the lake)

Having Bill along gave my father a fresh audience for old tales. "What do you think, Bill," he said, "pretty nice up here, isn't it?"  Bill and I had snowshoed Balm of Gilead a couple of years ago when the temperature barely reached zero. Being here on a 60 degree day was a treat.

(Painted Trillium)

Eventually, we had to start back down the trail.  A few black flies were out and circled our heads. In another week or two, they would become a formidable force.

(Dutchman's Breeches)

We made pretty good time going downhill.  "It's a trade-off," my father said.  "On the way up, it's hard to breathe, and on the way down the legs get a little shaky."  Bill helped him over logs and downed branches.  There seemed to be a lot of blow-down which we attributed to Hurricane Irene.

(Spring beauties next to rough tree bark)

About a quarter of a mile from the car, where the trail leveled out, he stopped a couple of times.  "My legs are talking back to me," he said.  I took a few pictures.  We all marveled at the Trout Lilies that we had seen in the morning, now standing tall with their petals curled back in the sunshine.  Going slowly had its benefits.

(Butterflies like this one flitted nearby all afternoon)

We reached the car and opened the windows.  The mountain breeze felt good as we drove on dirt roads back to route 28.  Tucked in the woods were a few beautiful log homes, reminding my father of his visits to a friend's vacation home nearby.  Then he rambled on a bit about the hunting camp on the Indian River where he spent many deer seasons over five decades.  We discussed how the camp could be remodeled for a summer house, since the younger generation had little interest in hunting.  The Adirondacks are full of good memories.

(Fiddlehead Ferns just peaking out of the leaves)

And we never skip Stewart's.  To our surprise, the new shop in Warrensburg already had 2012's seasonal flavors.  Stewart's Ice Cream comes out every summer with a few creative new flavors named for local places and traditions such as Kayadeross Cream,  Adirondack Bear Paw, Happy Camper, or the horse racing favorite Chocolate Trifecta, voted #1 dark chocolate ice cream in the world at the World Dairy Expo 2010 in Madison, Wisconsin.

(Yellow Violets)

I had a cone (to me the best way to consume ice cream), while Bill and my father each had double scoops in a dish.  We needed that boost to help us get back down the Northway and home.  When we reached my parents' house in Saratoga, my father's legs were no longer "talkin' back," and he regaled my mother with details of the view, the roast beef sandwich, and our great day on the trail.  Not a bad way to ring in an 88th birthday!

(lack of foliage on this May day allowed for lots of sun on the trail)

Half-Day in Hudson

Hudson has been in the news as a great place to visit for about a decade.  I was very interested when my friend, Lynn, suggested we go there for lunch at Cafe Le Perche.  Every time we planned to go, the weather was uncooperative or a conflict arose, so I had an extra month or two to read up on the new and improved City of Hudson.  Coming from a few decades of poverty, drugs, gambling and prostitution, Hudson has re-invented itself as a New York City getaway, especially for anyone interested in antiques, art galleries, gift shops, and restaurants.

Google recommends driving down route 9 from Albany which may be a bit faster than my choice of route 9J.  On this early spring day, the 38 mile trip took me 55 minutes. I enjoyed my drive along the Hudson River with its rural and charming scenery and occasional views of the Catskills. Lynn, coming from her home in nearby Chatham, arrived a few minutes ahead of me.

Le Perche is a bakery/cafe in the French style.  The owner studied the textures of French baking flour and now commissions local Wild Hive Farm to grow and grind bread grains to order.  In addition, the imported French bake oven, housed in  a carriage house behind the cafe, is so huge that it takes days to cool if the business closes down for a vacation.

A recent article in the Chronogram had touted the bakery's signature baguette.  When Bill heard that I was headed to Le Perche, he requested a loaf.  I also purchased half a loaf of still-warm peasant bread that Lynn recommended. 

After perusing (and salivating over) the bread selection, Lynn and I chose to have lunch in the cafe area. In warmer weather, outdoor seating would also be very appealing--one of many reasons to go back!  My brie sandwich with pear cranberry chutney on walnut sourdough bread was delicious, along with a refreshing glass of lemonade flavored by crushed fresh mint that tasted like summer.

Having met while working at Honest Weight Food Co-op, Lynn and I spent a pleasant couple of hours talking about food, family, and a variety of topics we had touched upon during fleeting moments at the Co-op.

Afraid that dessert goodies might sell out, Lynn had bought a buttery chocolate croissant when she first arrived for us to share. Sure enough, that had been the last one. I definitely profited from Lynn's previous experiences here and swooned over the flaky butter pastry and creamy chocolate filling!

(looking West along Warren Street)

After lunch, we took a walk along Warren St., the central part of the revived shopping area.  Small businesses line both sides of the street for a few blocks.  Lynn suggested that we go into Liliandloo, her favorite gift shop.  We saw many unusually crafted items in the two-floor multi-roomed store.  This is a place to buy a wedding gift, if you like to give "off the registry." Items come in every price range.  I saw linen towels on a roll for $8 as well as a 10 oz. pottery pitcher with a pretty leaf handle for $115.

(Liliandloo on the corner)

Parent to a young and lively golden retriever, Lynn knew her time away from home was limited.  After she left, I spent another 45 minutes wandering Warren Street.  Fifty or sixty years ago, this may have been a typical Main Street USA, before the city's decline.  Today it caters to an upscale clientele reflected in lovingly restored buildings.  I particularly liked the shop, Rural Residence, another home store with unusual items and a large table of Hudson Valley related books.

(Rural Residence is tucked in among restaurants and galleries)

Although it would be possible to spend hours browsing, I had to head back to Albany, but decided first to drive further down Warren Street.  A block or two from the main area of stores, these two imposing homes reminded me that Hudson has a very long history.

Just as I intended to seriously begin my return trip, I saw Verdigris Tea.  Tea shops are hard to resist. I parked the car again and checked it out.  All the accoutrements for the tea lover are here: tea pots, books about tea, many loose teas with samples to sniff, as well as tables for relaxing moments of drinking tea and eating a scone. 

(Verdigris Tea is painted true to its name!)

While I didn't have a puppy at home, I did have a rehearsal in Schenectady in the evening, so my time here also had limits.  I returned to 9J heading north, admiring homes and brilliant spring flowers all the way. 

This house is not only fronted by a hedge of forsythia, but has views to the river looking both north and south.

(Hudson River view looking north from the house above)

9J has an astounding number of historic plaques.  I would never get home if I stopped to read them, but next time I would be sure to read a few. In addition, signs for nature preserves abound.  I have a great weakness for any place with a trail and I knew that most of these preserves would offer Hudson River and Catskill Mountain views.  I was particularly intrigued by a sign pointing to "Harrier Hill."  Another led to the Lewis Swyer Nature Conservancy area, a place I had heard of but never seen.  My future return trip was becoming more and more defined!.

Further north, I was taken with the town of Schodack Landing.  Passing storm clouds made for a dramatic sky behind this little Dutch Reformed Church.

And just beyond the village of Castleton-on-Hudson, I could see the skyline of Albany.  Traffic increased as I hit 787 and I began to focus on my evening rehearsal.  Still, I retained a relaxed frame of mind from my good lunch at Cafe Le Perche visiting with Lynn, my walk along Warren Street in Hudson, and the peaceful drive through Hudson Valley countryside.

Mountain Meditations

I love hiking with friends and family, but sometimes I just have to get out there alone.  When a free 60 degree sunny day presented itself, and Bill was away at a conference, I headed to one of my go-to places, Alander Mountain in the southern Berkshires.  Not only is Alander a great little mountain (5 mile hike round trip with 800 feet elevation gain), but the drive is pretty too. I know all the back roads.

A friend of mine once told me, "As soon as I get in the car to go somewhere nice, or on the train, I start finding solutions to my problems." I didn't have any problems that I was looking for solutions to, but my mind was a jumble of emails, telephone conversations, and in-person interactions.  Going to a quiet place in the woods seemed like the perfect getaway.

I had been on a Sierra Club state-wide Energy Committee conference call the night before, which addressed disturbing gas drilling and nuclear concerns. I had talked recently about current environmental topics with Jackie, a friend and environmental educator.  She had asked wistfully, "What can we do to stay optimistic?"  I stumbled on the question, but today, I knew what might work for me. 

Alander Mt. is in the Mount Washington State Forest, just over an hour from home in Western Massachusetts. The trail begins across a meadow with a pond in the distance on the left and a Cape Cod style house behind stone walls on the right--a fitting New England scene.  In minutes the trail descends to a lively brook.  There had been a bridge here before Hurricane Irene, but I did a little rock-hopping and got across easily. 

From here the trail rises gradually on an old farm road, the woods riddled with tumble-down stone walls.

I thought of the emails and personal interactions I had had over the past few days.  Some had accomplished tasks, or been pleasant conversations, others had seemed less than satisfactory.  An internal dialogue of "what I should have said," went through my mind.

Small streams with tiny waterfalls ran on either side of the hill as the trail climbed.  This early in March not a leaf was on the trees, and a few patches of ice remained on the ground. Sunshine beamed unbroken by foliage.

I walked slowly.  I had no reason to hurry. The air had the humidity of a warm Spring day; there was no sense in raising a sweat. I took time to soak in the aromas of pine and hemlock, and the sounds of babbling streams.  As the trail rose, mountain laurel edged the path, its leaves dark green all winter.  In a couple of months, laurel blossoms would brighten the woods with pink and white.

Just below the summit, I stopped by the cabin built here for hikers to use.  Damp and unappealing, it never looked preferable to me to camping in a tent. 

 Still, I went inside and looked around.  Someone had been here very recently, even leaving a few graham crackers that mice had not yet found. 

(a few leftovers for the next campers)

 Maybe a wood fire would make the cabin cozier than I gave it credit for.

The trail took a turn for the last 1/4 mile to the summit, through blueberry bushes that offer a boon harvest in July.  Reaching the open ridge, I admired views to the south and west towards Connecticut and more of the Berkshires.

(view towards Connecticut)

Opposite, behind a row of bushes, another view opens to the town of Copake below and to the Catskills beyond the Hudson Valley.  I like both sides, but I chose to have my lunch on the Catskill side.  A thick haze made the mountains barely visible, but I knew they were there and that they were still snow-covered.

Looking down on the village of Copake with my binoculars, I could see a cluster of houses and a church along the main street.  A truck went by on the road far below.  How many generations had seen this view almost the same as I was seeing it today?  My environmental mind thought of the old Iroquois premise that we should look seven generations ahead whenever we make decisions.  This land where I was sitting had been saved by forethinking preservationists.

(Catskills barely visible in the distance)

I lingered at the summit with the warmth of the sun on my head, the wind at my back, and the earth beneath my feet. Standing on exposed rock, I closed my eyes and soaked in these natural energies.

A hiker came from the other direction, the first person I had seen all day.  He walked quickly with ear buds on.  As he passed me, we remarked on the beautiful day.  I stayed a few minutes longer and then headed back down the path.

It was still early in the day and I had put all of my earlier mental conversations behind me.  Now, I looked for animal tracks, listened for birds or running water, and searched the woods for moss-covered stone walls, as the sun created deep shadows across the trail. 

Often I hum or whistle on the trail.  I do this at home, too.  I am rarely completely quiet, but today I thought of a Co-op friend whose husband was spending three weeks on a silent retreat.  A few of us had said, "He can't talk for three weeks!"  Our friend responded, "he gets to not talk for three weeks," making us understand that his weeks of silence were a privilege rather than a chore.  Right now, on this trail, I felt privileged to make only the sounds of my footsteps on stones and leaves.

Eventually, I was again low enough on the mountain that I could hear the trickle of little streams.  I sat down by one of them and listened to its gentle voice.  My elderly next-door neighbor had once bought a small bowl of rocks for inside the house that made this sound when it was plugged in and a continuous gurgle of water tumbled over the stones.  An electrified stream wouldn't work for me; I would have to be content with carrying this in my memory.

I remembered myths where gods, goddesses, fairies, saints, or ancestors, came out of the earth through hillside springs like this. No wonder the musical sounds of water almost seemed to speak from beyond. I sat in the dappled sunlight and listened. 

One time my friend, Maggie, said to me, "But you can't always be in antiquity. You have to apply those universal thoughts to today." I supposed she was right, but I liked hanging out with the early Native Americans and ancient Celts here in the woods.

I passed a strong lively stream.  The little ones had gathered up and made a more significant brook and a more urgent sound.  Once more I sat down in the leaves and listened.  This time, I thought of John Muir and John Burroughs, naturalists of nearly a century ago who changed the country's views on conservation and preservation.  They sat in places like this and wrote poetry or essays. And I couldn't forget Thoreau.  He walked all over these mountains absorbing nature and applying it to his life.

And coming up to almost the present day, my mind wandered to my favorite Adirondack author, Anne LaBastille.  She soaked in the water, mountains, and forests just a few decades ago and declared that we all needed to look for the spirit of Thoreau amidst the spectres of the modern age.
 

Finally, I decided to walk on out of the woods.  A Buddhist prayer popped into my mind and I winged it out in generic fashion to all the people who had been passing through my mind: May they be happy; may they be peaceful; may they be free from suffering.  I certainly was relaxed, peaceful, and full of early Spring.


 The car was hot.  I took off my boots and socks and put on my Birkenstocks.  Tossing my long sleeved shirt on the back seat, I opened the car windows, got in, and drove away.  I turned on a CD and Mendelssohn's festive 5th Symphony accompanied me on my drive back through the countryside.

Winter Reading: Anne Morrow Lindbergh

I had not intended to become an Anne Morrow Lindbergh scholar.  It all began innocently enough last September when I was packing for a few days in Maine.  I should have gone to the library, I thought.  I browsed my bookshelves and said to myself, what could be more appropriate than re-reading Gift from the Sea while at the ocean?

I had read the book a few times, finding something new in it with each reading, but it had been at least seven or eight years since my last reading.  In Gift from the Sea, Anne studies relationships and compares them to shells she finds on the beach.  The pictures she paints as she describes the shells and her insights into marriage and other relationships are thoughtful and compelling.

While still in Maine, I googled her and decided that I wanted to know more about her life.  When I got home, I took out the biography, Anne Morrow Lindbergh by Susan Hertog, from the library. Raised as a daughter of the American Ambassador to Mexico, Anne grew up in a wealthy and privileged family with frequent travels to Europe and South America, eventually graduating from Smith College.  While in Mexico visiting her parents over a Christmas vacation, Charles Lindbergh joined the family as a guest of the Mexican government.  Anne developed an immediate crush, later claiming that life for her began when Charles came on the scene. 

I had seen Charles Lindbergh's "Spirit of St. Louis" hanging in the Smithsonian in Washington D.C., but I was not aware of what a celebrity he had been in his day.  Papparazzi followed him everywhere. The public was totally charmed and he walked comfortably amidst the throngs.  Anne knew that if she wanted to be part of Charles's life, she would not be able to maintain the privacy and solitude that she craved. 

But she loved to fly.  After her first ride with her sisters in Charles's airplane, Anne found an instructor back in her college town and began flying lessons.  The next year when Charles again came to Mexico, he let her fly his plane.  Imagine what flying was like in those days.  Just Anne and Charles in an open two-seater cockpit, cruising up the sides of mountains in Mexico and dashing down the next.  Anne sensed a huge freedom, had no fear in the plane, and relished time alone with Charles.  Flying gave them the opportunity to land on isolated beaches and meadows, far from the press.  

Marriage brought a new perspective on duty.  Devoted to duty and God, her parents had instilled in Anne the need to be of service to her community and family.  As Anne flew with Charles to different parts of the world, she shared her vision with an adoring public through books and articles.  I was surprised to learn that Anne Morrow Lindbergh had been a huge best-selling author in the 1930s and 40s. 

The tragic kidnapping of their first child, Charlie Jr., dramatically changed Anne's and Charles's lives. After a frantic three-month search for the baby with Charles convinced he would eventually bring Charlie home alive to Anne, the baby's body was found a mile from their home, killed within the first day or two of the kidnapping.  Anne responded by blaming herself--the baby was stolen right out of his bedroom while she was in the house.  Previously convinced of the basic goodness of man, she now had to confront evil, a major crisis of faith.  Charles blamed the press and a chaotic democratic society.

I was interested to learn that kidnappings were more common during the Great Depression of the 1930s than at any other time in history.  Perpetrators thought they could make big money quickly.  The kidnapper of Charlie Jr. apparently intended to hold the him for ransom, but was so terrified by the hoards of policeman and press, who descended on the area in droves, that he killed the baby and hid the body.  A year went by before the kidnapper was caught. From hereon, Anne and Charles saw the press as a threat to their existence.

More than ever, Anne wished for a peaceful life away from the public eye.  In time she and Charles had five more children, but the media attention persisted.  To escape, they lived in ten different parts of the world over a fifteen year period.  At the same time, Charles became more adamant than ever that Anne should accompany him on his flying missions.  While she loved flying and writing about these adventures, she was torn between the duty she felt towards Charles and her love and duty to her children.  During this period Charles came to value Anne's writing; he became her most intuitive reader and editor.

As I read the biography, I couldn't help sharing some of it with friends.  While at the Co-op one day, I mentioned my reading.  A few people said, "I love Anne Morrow Lindbergh!"  My friend, Lynn, said, "I've read a few of her books. They have meant a lot to me."  Another woman told me, "For years, my husband and I gave Gift From The Sea as a part of our wedding gifts to each of our friends."  Lynn became interested in reading the biography; we even held a book club meeting at the Old Chatham Country Store! 

Since much of the biography focused on Anne's writing, I decided that I should read two of her best-selling books, one, Listen!The Wind, about flying with Charles, and the other, Dearly Beloved, her only work of fiction. 

Listen! The Wind describes ten days out her six-month journey across the North and South Atlantic with Charles.  They had been commissioned to map routes and winds for possible future commercial air travel.  How incredibly exotic this book must have seemed to her readers.  Landing on islands with native people, gauging the winds--first too much, then too little--and Anne's complete fearlessness in the air over thousands of miles of ocean.

Anne didn't just write while traveling.  She also had work to do.  By hanging an antenna out of a hole in the bottom of their tiny plane, Anne was responsible for reading and sending coded messages to and from land.  She enjoyed the camaraderie with people on the ground who connected to her in the air.  Once she made radio contact with a ship on the ocean.  Charles dove down close to the ship, waved to the sailors, and then flew steeply back up to the clouds.  Anne's other job was to fly the plane for periods while Charles monitored readings and maps. As I thought about flying in 1933, I could understand the public's fascination with Anne's books.  Nothing as surreal as flying across oceans had been done before.  In addition, Anne and Charles were an attractive couple that made them darlings of this new frontier.

Since I had now read three books by and about Anne, I knew her novel, Dearly Beloved, would be a change of pace. The story is a spin-off of Anne's startling discovery that Charles no longer belonged on the pedestal where she had held him for fifteen years.

Charles's fascination with Nazi Germany, when he was invited to inspect the Luftwaffe, did not seem problematic.  He was justifiably awed by the German engineering and precision of their air force. What upset Anne and the American public was his position in the America First campaign, a white supremacist group with Nazi leanings. Scholars claim that his anti-democratic sentiment came from his reaction to the kidnapping of Charlie Jr.  He held overt American freedoms responsible for allowing heinous crimes.  As his anti-semitic speeches grew louder, Anne faced a dilemma.  At first she stuck by her wifely duty and wrote articles politically similar to Charles's speeches, despite her convictions that he was wrong.  Eventually she had to break away to keep her voice and sense of truth. During this tumultuous period, she and Charles both had affairs.

Anne retreated to a house in Connecticut and began writing about her own marriage and marriage in general. What came out was Dearly Beloved, a story in which a young couple stands at the front of the church to get married. The narrator describes the thoughts of the different friends and family who are watching the ceremony, each character viewing the wedding vows from his own life experience.  Anne's fictional exploration resolves into a positive endorsement of communication, oneness, and endurance through marriage.

I thought I had finished my study of the Lindberghs and reported this back at the Co-op.  Lynn said, "Did you read Bring Me a Unicorn?  That was my favorite.  I give it as a gift regularly."  Should I bypass Lynn's favorite book?  I requested it from the library.

 Bring Me A Unicorn brought me full circle back to the young shy introverted woman with a fierce need to express herself through writing. My picture of Charles came full circle, too, from the confident young aviator to an older reflective man, who would visit the Smithsonian just to watch the tourists' expressions as they gazed at his planes hanging there.  Bring Me A Unicorn, a compilation of Anne's letters and journal entries completed my Lindbergh study.

As she grew older, Anne found time for solitude, a love of nature, and more time to nurture her writing.  She and Charles continued to live in the Connecticut house where they had regular visits from family.  Anne Morrow Lindbergh outlived Charles by 27 years and died in 2001 at age 94.



Are Squirrels People Too?

I admit that, in the 29 years we have lived in our Albany home, I have often been unhappy sharing my yard with gray squirrels.  The fact that, at any one time, we might have eight in the yard at once has definitely influenced my feelings about them.  Despite their fluffy tails and sometimes cute antics, I have found them to be annoying and pesky.

For one, I learned early on not to plant tulips.  In Albany, tulips are a staple of our city's Dutch heritage, but not in my yard.  When we first moved here, I planted tulip bulbs. Just as those red and yellow buds got fat and ready to open, squirrels nipped them off.  If the squirrels had been hungry and wanted them for a feast, I would have had some sympathy, but no, they dropped the buds and left. From then on, I planted daffodils instead.

I don't even attempt traditional tomatoes.  My neighbors often had large almost-ripe tomatoes hanging from the vine, but who would come along and take the first bite?  Squirrels.  Those nice juicy fruits had teeth marks all over them.  I do grow grape tomatoes.  I lose some but can still retrieve a few pints in the course of a summer.

We managed to "out-fox" the squirrels at the bird feeder.  They used to swing from maple branches and land on the roof of the feeder, then hang by their back toes, ready for a feast.  Although amazed at the squirrels' gymnastics, we cut the tree branch and got a feeder that closes when too much weight is on the rim.  A baffle on the pole helps too.

The most expensive damage came when a squirrel fell down the chimney and chewed the firebox inside our oil burner.  We had to pay for a few hefty repairs after that escapade; we also put a screen over the top of the chimney.  "Rats with fluffy tails," one neighbor used to say.

Okay, sometimes they can be cute.  After the holidays we put the Christmas tree out in the yard, still covered with the popcorn and cranberry chain I string each year.  I like watching the squirrels clamber over the tree carrying off lengths of the chain across the yard and up our Norway maple tree.  Against the snow on cold days, they can look soft and picturesque with their fur puffed out for warmth, as they try to keep a grip on the popcorn string.

In the yard behind us, a huge silver maple houses a squirrel apartment complex.  Two large holes provide entrances.  Who knows how many squirrels live in the trunk and in the largest branch.  From our porch, we have been entertained watching them go in and out.  Our cat keeps track of the squirrels too.  She chatters and her tail flips hard even though she can only be a spectator from the window.

And in the fall, they run from the oak tree across the street laden with acorns heading for the silver maple condo complex.  We wake up to the sound of acorns pinging the roofs of cars while the squirrels tackle the branches and load up for winter.

Still, I have never considered these gray rodents more than occasionally cute nuisances, until last week.  I was cruising down our street on my bike when I saw a freshly hit squirrel in the road.  It lay on its side, obviously dead, but appeared almost unharmed, as if it has just been given a stunning blow.  Next to it, a puffed up gray squirrel stood guard.  On the grass, two other squirrels appeared, watching.

For a while after I got home, I took an occasional glance out the window.  Each time a car went by, the squirrels scattered, then returned, the one taking particular care to stay nearby.  Could they be grieving?  What was the relationship of the guard to the deceased?  Were the two others family members?  We know that cats and dogs are capable of feeling loss, but squirrels? When three crows came, thinking a fresh meal might be available, the guard squirrel kept his position and the crows remained at bay. 

By the time Bill came home, the dead squirrel was beginning to look like road kill, the guard squirrel had moved farther away, and crows were showing greater interest.  Bill carried the carcass on a shovel to the field at the end of the street where it would decompose as nature saw fit.

We were both amazed that we had never seen this kind of behavior in all the years we have lived here. Had I underestimated the squirrels? Was there sadness in the silver maple condo? I may need to give these gray neighbors more credit.

Bonticou Crag

I looked down into the garden from inside the kitchen.  My Scottish heather was blooming...at New Year's!  Its delicate splash of pink amidst the dead leaves was pretty but would it bloom in the Spring or was this it?  Had our warm winter fooled the garden? As an environmentalist, I have some anxiety about weird weather patterns.  And as a snow lover, I have been missing the traditional beauty of winter, and the fun of snowshoeing and skiing.

On Sunday, Thomas called, "Marlie and I thought we would go skiing this week since we're taking some time off, but without any snow, we were wondering about a hike."  He asked me if I was free on Tuesday and we brainstormed some ideas. I could tell that he had Bonticou Crag in New Paltz in mind. He ended the conversation, saying, "Well, just thought I'd put a bug in your ear."  Putting a bug in my ear is a risky thing.  My mental wheels were turning.  Here was the option of a positive spin on this warm snowless season.

Next he sent me an email, "Do you want to meet us at 11 a.m. in New Paltz?"

I already had my hiking boots out. New Paltz is exactly equidistant between my house in Albany and theirs in Jersey City, an hour and twenty minutes for each of us.  The town has funky shops, a variety of restaurants, considerable early American history, and just over the hill are great hikes in the Shawangunks.  

In fact, Meredith had been the one to introduce all of us to New Paltz when she went to college there in the mid-2000s. We discovered stunning quartz cliffs, soft woodland trails and carriage paths, waterfalls, rolling rural views, and fascinating history. Recently, New Paltz had become a place that attracted Thomas.  Like many people in the metro-New York area, he and Marlie found the 'Gunks and the Hudson Valley an easy drive to charming rural getaways.  

As arranged, we met just off the thruway and headed in my car to the Mohonk Preserve.  Mohonk charges a pretty steep $12 per person to hike on its trails.  While I support land preservation and have paid the fees before, we were glad that on this early January day, no one was in the booth at the Spring Farm parking area. For three of us, the two-hour 3-mile round-trip walk to Bonticou Crag would have cost $36.  

We put on our hiking boots, hats, and gloves, just as the sun disappeared behind a thickening cloud cover. Following a map I had brought from home, we began on a winding carriage path. Damp leaves smelled of Fall and we thought we heard the hoot of an owl.  A noon whistle blew in a nearby town.

The carriage path changed to a smooth hiking trail, ending at the base of the Crag, a conglomerate quartz cliff typical of the Shawangunks.  More adventurous climbers scramble up the rubble of rocks and rock-climb the wall.  Fortunately for us, there is an alternate route up the side of the ridge.

We continued following the base of the cliff but became disconcerted by the path's descent.  "We must have missed the turn-off to the ridge trail," I said. Since Thomas and I had been here before, Marlie was at our mercy as we all hiked back up, still didn't find the trail, decided we hadn't gone far enough, and hiked back down again.  "It should have a sign," Thomas said. 

I agreed but remembered that the previous time we were here, a large boulder had been covered by small cairns marking the intersection.  We kept going and there it was. The boulder seemed obvious to us now, covered with a disheveled collection of stones.  We turned onto the narrow twisty trail between fallen rock that led to the ridge and summit.

Thomas and Marlie hiked sure and fast, and I enjoyed the workout.  I shed my hat, gloves, and jacket.  Rocky outcroppings offered views along the way, but an ever-stronger breeze as we rose higher made me question whether I should have stripped down.

At the top of the Crag, the wind picked up and I put all of my gear back on.  We peered over the edge of the jagged white rock.  Far below we could see the hiking trails we had been on winding through the leafless forest. Two turkey vultures soared nearby. This day, that had seemed warm moments before, took on a sudden chill and we started down. 

 (Marlie and Thomas with the faint outine of the Catskills behind them)

I had brought brownies for a summit snack and now they were burning a hole in my pack, demanding to be eaten. We found a rock to sit on just below the ridge and fortified ourselves with chocolate. 

From there, Thomas and Marlie chose a different route for our return from the one we had taken on the way up.  The easy terrain gave us plenty of opportunity to visit.  We had seen each other just two weeks before at Christmas, but we had no trouble keeping up a running conversation. 

And then there were the quiet moments as we admired odd tree shapes, the pine needle carpet on the trail, or just soaked in a few moments alone in the woods.  We had only seen one other person in the preserve.

Our trail ended at a farm field with a beautiful view of the Catskills. We walked the dirt road back to the Spring Farm parking lot, suddenly aware of hunger pangs. All those great eateries in New Paltz were just minutes away.We chose to go to Bacchus, a restaurant with New American cuisine and a choice of over 400 beers.

By 3 p.m. we each went our separate way: Thomas and Marlie headed south to Jersey City, and I went north to Albany.

Sure, Thomas and Marlie would have liked to get in a ski day on their vacation, and more seasonable weather would be my preference, but being able to hike on this day had not been about turning lemons into lemonade.  It was much more than that.  I had been invited to share in the kids' vacation.  What could be better than spending a day in a beautiful place with two of my favorite people?
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Addendum: A reader informed me that the fee at Mohonk Preserve applies every day regardless of whether someone is in the booth.  I was not aware of this and suspect that you would need to go to the Visitor's Center and pay the fee.

Jersey Crumb Cake

I sat at my parents' kitchen table in their Saratoga home one morning enjoying a piece of Entenmann's crumb coffee cake.  Long ago, after years of trying any crumb cake that came on the market, my mother had declared Entenmann's closest to her memory of the fabled cake she had had in her 1920s and 30s Hackensack, New Jersey, childhood. 

On this particular morning, I asked my mother, "Do you remember the name of the bakery that made the crumb cake in Hackensack?" Without hesitation, she replied, "Weimer's Bakery. My grandfather went there every Sunday and bought a crumb cake for us girls and my father, and a pecan ring for Mother and himself.  We liked the crumb cake best." 

My mother's tales of the Jersey cake's delectable sweet topping and base had reached mythic status in our family.  In the 1960s, my mother had attempted to recreate the recipe herself, combining different measurements of sugar, butter, and flour, until she was reasonably satisfied that she had come close to her recollection.  Back then, taste-testing these experiments was a task my sister and I had been more than willing to take on.

When I got home, I googled Weimer's Bakery.  It popped right up under the name Boehringer and Weimer (Boehringer was added in 1946) as the home of the best crumb cake in New Jersey! Still using the age-old recipe, B and W remains a thriving institution on Main Street in Hackensack. 

In early November, I visited Thomas and Marlie in Jersey City.  For the day's activity, Thomas suggested, "We should go check out that bakery."  He and Marlie had made a hobby of going to famous bakeries in Manhattan and New Jersey, so this was right up their alley, and throwing in a bit of family history made it all the more intriguing.

Meredith arrived from Manhattan, and, by noon, Thomas drove Marlie, Meredith, and me on a pilgrimage to B and W, Home of the Famous Heavy Crumb Cake in Hackensack, New Jersey.

With his BlackBerry as a guide, Thomas had little difficulty locating the bakery and its small parking lot.  Inside, a cluster of customers gathered and we studied the shelves.  Pecan rings overlapped in rows, but we saw no crumb cake.  We were waiting only a few minutes when a server brought out a huge pan of thick crumb cake and laid it on a counter.  She divided it into six-portion sections.  The crumb cake vanished so quickly that it didn't have time to linger on a shelf. Baked fresh all day from early morning until 5 p.m., B and W ensures that every customer gets a fresh piece at the reasonable price of $6.95 a section.  I purchased two--one for us to have that day, and one for me to take home.

Having secured our cakes, I called my mother from the car.  She was as excited as I was that we were discovering landmarks from 80 years before. Across from the bakery, a street sign read "Poplar Avenue."  A few blocks later, we parked in front of her childhood home.  "It's right up from the bakery!" I exclaimed on the phone.  "Oh yes," my mother said.

In this middle-class neighborhood, my grandfather had made his two daughters fantastic Christmas gifts that later became prototypes for the many wooden toys he created for FAO Schwarz from 1936 until 1970. My grandmother had cooked simple American foods, like meat loaf, baked beans, baked apples, and wholesome daily breakfasts of oatmeal or cream of wheat. My mother and her sister, in play dresses my grandmother had made, laced their brown buckle shoes into roller skates and skated on the sidewalk, laughing with friends after school.  And here, my great-grandfather brought waiting children a sugary treat every Sunday.

Back in Jersey City, at Thomas and Marlie's apartment, I laid our crumb cake on a cutting board. Three-quarters of an inch of sugary crumbs topped about a half-inch of cake.  I cut the cake into pieces for each of us.  Marlie made tea and we settled in for the taste test.

Meredith, Marlie, and Thomas are astute judges of baked goods; they know good goodies when they taste them.  I waited for their response.  Thomas said, in a less-than-enthusiastic tone, "It's good."  Meredith agreed.  Marlie studied the cake.  "It's not really cake," she determined.  "It has a rich yeast-bread base."
I looked closely.  No wonder my mother had had difficulty recreating this.  Jersey crumb cake was no ordinary combination of flour and baking powder! I pulled a piece of the base from the topping.  It was rich, moist, and sweet.  In contrast, the topping was a drier and chunky mix of brown sugar and butter. We decided that, while we liked the cake, it probably wouldn't be our first choice of breakfast treat given all the options at our disposal nowadays, both as bakers ourselves and from myriad nearby bakeries.

I packaged up the other cake and carried it back to Albany.  It was still only hours old when Bill had a piece around 9:30 p.m.  "This is really good!" he exclaimed.  I told him of our earlier somewhat subdued response and he repeated, "It seems pretty good to me."  Still, I knew the real judge was in Saratoga.  I froze a large section (against the recommendation of the bakery, of course) until I could take it to my parents.

 

 

In the meantime, I called my mother and we talked about Hackensack.  I found 1930 and present-day population statistics online and information on architectural and historical details.  I also found a recipe for a yeast-based New Jersey crumb cake! My mother reminisced about school, her friends, days when her father worked in New Jersey but her grandfather commuted by train to New York where he owned a men's millinery shop, and when Hackensack was a rising suburb separated by woods from the next town.

The following week, I was again at my parents' kitchen table. I hadn't told my mother that I had brought a crumb cake from Boehringer and Weimer's.  My mother's eyes opened wide when I took it out of the bag. "I can't believe you carried this all the way from New Jersey!" she exclaimed. My father was equally impressed.

When she saw the proportion of sugary topping to cake, my mother said, "No wonder we girls loved this!"  I waited for the verdict and she did not disappoint, "Boy, that's good!"  The rich yeast-cake base and the thick layer of crumbs were sources of admiration and brought up memories of a time when bakery treats like this were just that, treats. I showed my parents the photographs I had taken, and I was thrilled that the whole experience had been a fun vicarious journey for my mother.

When I visited my parents' home on Thanksgiving, I was surprised to hear my mother tell Bill that she and my father hadn't liked the crumb cake.  "What?!" I exclaimed. "You said it was really good!"   "Well, yes, but we decided that it was an awful lot of sugar, more sugar than cake, actually."  Ahh, I knew what had happened--my mother's adult perspective had kicked in. The day I had brought that New Jersey crumb cake straight from Hackensack, her gleeful response had been that of her 1930's inner child.