Adirondack Whirlwind



(Linda stands on a bridge rebuilt since Hurricane Irene)



When my friend, Linda, and I spent a day hiking the West River Trail to Rainbow Falls in the Ausable Club Preserve, I lamented not spending more time in the Adirondacks.  "I'm homesick for the lakes," I told Linda.  "I'm not sure what I think I need," I added, "maybe I'm just wishing for old times when I camped with the kids."

In fact, I did wonder if I was in some sentimental place where I longed for those childhood years when Thomas and Meredith could hardly sleep because it was so exciting to be in a tent at Indian Lake. 

Linda and I had a refreshingly cool sunny day in the midst of a hot humid July.  "I want to see Rainbow Falls," she had said.  "Ron went there in the winter and it looked beautiful."


We quickly discovered that, despite the summer's drought, waterfalls, both large and small, tumbled over rocks along the entire trail.  Sometimes the trail ran alongside the water, and other times we were high above and could only hear the sounds of fast-running water.  We chatted as we walked through cool hemlock forests.

(Beaver Meadow Falls)

Occasionally we saw evidence of Hurricane Irene in rock piles along the brook's edge. Tumbled-down trees lay like match sticks here and there.  Still, serene beauty and silence made the tumult of last year seem very long ago.



( Beaver Meadow)



By the time we reached Rainbow Falls, we had begun to rate the beauty of the many cascades we had passed in our three-mile hike along the river.  The crown jewel of the trail, Rainbow Falls is huge and dramatic.  We had to tilt our heads back to see the top, but we decided that it was the trail as a whole with its great variety that really drew us.


(Rainbow Falls)



Although I had spoken as if I had no plans to spend time at an Adirondack lake, in fact, a group of us had organized a women's overnight at Lake Durant for the middle of August.  Little did I know that this was just the kick-start to what I later called my two-week Adirondack whirlwind. 



(Sharing some laughs at Lake Durant)



Last summer, I had tried to organize a Women's Camping Overnight through the Adirondack Mountain Club.  My friend, Claudia, was the only respondent and she and I had a great time at Lake Durant.  This year she took on the task of gathering friends and finding a site, while the rest of us contributed gear and food.  We had lots of laughs, told the best stories, were amused by being caught in a downpour in the middle of the lake while canoeing, and shared fabulous camaraderie.



(Lake Durant at evening from the campsite)



After we dried off from our drenching, we walked around the camp area scoping out sites we might consider for next year.  In the end, we said, "the one we're on is one of the nicest," and, even though we were only camping for about 24 hours, we all agreed that this should become an annual event.

I got home to more than 50 emails, but one caught my eye. Peter, a friend of my father's described a kayak outing he had been on with the Crooked Canes, a hiking group of retired people that my father belongs to.  The group had gone to Lens Lake in Stony Creek.  He offered to be a guide, if I wanted to go there.  I had been trying to think of a nice place for my father and me that wasn't too far from my parents' Saratoga home, and decided to take Peter up on his offer.



(My father and I kayaking on Lens Lake)



As my father's Alzheimer's progresses, trips like this are more complicated and I was glad to have Peter in charge. I also knew that my father would have even more fun with his good friend along. 

What a day!  Perfect weather, a calm lake with just a touch of Fall, great company, and a pair of herons flying in graceful swoops back and forth across the water. Although I expect to have many more small hikes with my father, I was reflective and grateful here, thinking that next year a kayak outing would probably no longer be possible.

In between my comings and goings, I spent a couple of days at home doing laundry, making dinners, and mowing the lawn.  I hoped my occasional touch downs would keep the place running while I was out playing.  Fortunately, Bill was not envious of my excursions as he came home from work to camping equipment drying across the clothesline and my detritus strewn about.  He was still reveling in our earlier outing to Vermont (see my previous post).



(Late afternoon at the Flowed Lands)

And then it was time for Meredith's and my annual High Peaks' backpacking trip.  We planned to conquer Cliff and Redfield, our 40th and 41st peaks. Since these peaks have unmarked trails and do not show up on hiking maps, I do lots of research so that I will feel safe heading into the woods.  We would backpack in 4 1/2 miles one day, hike the two mountains the second day, and backpack out the third day.  In all of my reading about trail conditions and hazards, somehow I had missed that our two-night camping spot at the Flowed Lands was a stunning location.  



(Our little tent nestled in the hemlocks at Flowed Lands)



In the evenings and mornings, we ate our meals on this rock, either watching the sun come up or go down. 

(Meredith at breakfast with our bear canister of food)

Not only had I not read about the beauty of the Flowed Lands, but I had had no idea that the summit of Redfield would offer this! Clearly, I had focused on things like finding the trailhead, or conquering the slippery bogs and treacherous rock cliffs on Cliff Mt. The advantage of my focus on the more dire aspects of the hike was that our jaws dropped when we stumbled upon gorgeous views.

(View from Redfield.  Meredith and I have walked the entire ridge in this view, one step at a time.)

 

I was surprised when, shortly after my hike with Meredith, Thomas called and asked me to join him at Indian Lake. 



(Thomas cooking marshmallows)



Unfortunately, he and Marlie had had plans for a few days there, but she could not get the time off from her new job.  Thomas said, "I still need to get away.  Would you want to go with me Saturday to Sunday?"

(early morning walk to a misty Lewey Lake)

He knew what my answer would be, although I did feel bad about Marlie missing out.

Thomas and I canoed to our favorite island in Indian Lake and swam, had a fire and s'mores, and hiked to Puffer Pond, just as we had over the nearly twenty years when Bill and I had brought the kids here for family vacations. 

I came home, put away the camping equipment, cleaned the mud off my hiking boots, and looked at all the beautiful pictures I had taken. It was time to get back into an at-home routine.  I could not play forever and responsibilities waited on the doorstep.

Just then my friend, June, called, "We're in the car on our way to Lake Placid.  Can you come up and go for a hike?  Plan to stay overnight."

June and Roger have a timeshare at Whiteface Lodge.  I had to shuffle a couple of things on my calendar but I didn't hesitate to say yes. This time, Bill would have enjoyed coming along but it was crunch time for him at The College of St. Rose.  I went up in the late afternoon.  Whiteface Lodge offers comfort and amenities antithetical to camping!  

(View of Whiteface in late-summer color, from the livingroom of our friends' timeshare)

June and I chose to hike Rooster Comb, a mountain whose trailhead is right off of route 73. Rooster Comb boasts one of the rare Adirondack Trails that was planned and laid out with switchbacks.  It is not your usual clamber-up-a-creekbed trail.  That does not mean it's easy, but very manageable with 6 miles round trip and 1700 feet of elevation gain.

 

(June dwarfed by tree roots on the trail)

We saw a few other hikers and ate our lunch on the open summit, admiring views to Giant Mt. in the east and Mt. Marcy farther away in the southwest.



(view of Giant Mt. near the summit of Rooster Comb)

Later that week, back in Albany, my friend, Linda, and I met for a walk in the neighborhood. She commented on my Adirondack whirlwind saying, "And you were feeling bad that you wouldn't have much time up north!"  Instead I had been near and far, with friends and family, every time in gorgeous weather. I had even had overnight trips with Thomas and Meredith.

Now I was ready to get some food in the house, dig up monstrous crabgrass that had invaded my garden, and talk to Bill!  I looked forward to my orchestra schedule resuming, and I knew that Sierra Club responsibilities would get more numerous with upcoming elections.  My plate would fill up, but, right now, it all looked good.



Woodstock, Vermont Getaway

(covered bridge in Woodstock over the Ottauqueechee River)

Nearby Vermont is always a draw for us.  This year we planned a two-night trip to Woodstock, a town of 3000, about 120 miles northeast of Albany.  Having vacationed there decades ago, we felt well overdue for a return visit!



(pretty New England homes line the streets)

Voted the prettiest small town in America by Ladies Home Journal in 1998, Woodstock continues to acquire awards, most recently the 2011 Great Streetscapes of America commendation by the American Planning Association.

(Farmer's Market on the village green)

We agree that, with its buried power lines, well-kept 200 year-old homes, a picturesque village green, and Elm and Central Streets shopping area, all nestled in the rolling farm and forestland of the Green Mountains, Woodstock is a great getaway.  We spent a few hours wandering the streets, taking pictures, admiring flower gardens, and perusing charming shops.

(Hey, I thought we were going to hike the Long Trail!)

Although restaurants abound in town, when we got hungry, we headed a few miles west to Bridgewater Corners and the Long Trail Brewery, definitely one of Bill's reasons for wanting to visit this area.  I admit that, although I've seen my share of breweries and once you've admired those big cylindrical tanks and pipes and smelled the hops you pretty much have seen them all, Long Trail was one of the nicest breweries I've been to. 

Advertising a German-style beer garden, this offered a little of Germany and a lot of Vermont.  I was pretty content sitting under tall shade trees next to the Ottauqueechee River with some yummy pub fare and a slight breeze.  And, as Bill debated his beer options, I walked down the rock stairway and explored the riverbank.


(1836 Taftsville covered bridge is half destroyed)

Later, as we drove on back roads and through nearby villages, we saw considerable remaining damage from Hurricane Irene. Now, a year later, we could hardly imagine how devastated the area must have been. 

(This sugarhouse washed into a pile of rocks, has a sign on it that says, "we lost everything.")

A mobile home on its side on top of rocks in a field, tall trees lying cross-ways in the rivers, another house propped up on its foundation at both ends but with the middle a gaping hole...and everyone we talked to had a hurricane story. 

Along with the loss of fall foliage tourism last year, followed by a poor winter for snow, and a very brief maple sugaring season, Vermont's economy has struggled. Still, hardy New Englanders joined together in the recovery and Vermont's timeless beauty remains breathtaking.

(carriage path going up Mt. Tom)

Hiking Mount Tom in the Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller National Historic Park was on my list of things to do.  Like so many 19th-century estates of the rich and famous, this property is riddled with carriage paths laid out to maximize views.  We chose to hike on a traditional hiking trail to Mt. Tom's summit and to descend via carriage paths, making a loop of just over four miles with 600 feet of elevation gain.

(looking towards New Hampshire from the summit of Mt. Tom)

This National Park was founded "to tell the story of conservation history and the evolving nature of land stewardship in America."  Although the Marsh, Billings, and Rockefeller families had little connection beyond their love of this area and consecutive ownership of the property, each made major contributions to conservation from the early 1800s through the late 1900s.  Successive generations struggled to find new ways to protect natural resources within the economic and technological demands of their times...ideas that continue to ring loudly for us in 2012.

(The Pogue, a pond tucked in the Park's mountains)

Despite the scenic trail and gorgeous summit views, the warm humid weather left us eager for some ice cream on Central Street in town.  Bill chose cookies and cream gelato from an Italian shop we had passed, while I went straight for homemade coconut chocolate chip ice cream a few doors farther along. We found a comfortable bench, next to a babbling brook across from an old mill, to sit and enjoy our treats.

(an amazing variety of flours is available at King Arthur)

Our second day, we made a pilgrimage to nearby Norwich to visit the King Arthur Store. Heading straight for the bakery, Bill bought a bear claw and I had a sticky bun.  I've had enough sticky buns in my day to know when I've had one that's really fabulous.  This was the best sticky bun I had ever eaten. The bakery also has a wide variety of breads and an array of sandwiches, but we were holding off for a later meal at the Harpoon Brewery just down the road.

(me on King Arthur's throne, Lancelot, and my bag of purchases)

I had not really thought of buying much at King Arthur, but you can see I came home with a pretty full bag. Taken with the flour and cocoa options, I bought a package of Harvest Grains that would add interesting texture and nutrition to my everyday bread recipe, and I couldn't pass up the Black Cocoa that would make my brownies and favorite chocolate cake even richer. 

It would have been easy to spend a lot of money on kitchen supplies, cookbooks, and more varieties of baking chips, extracts, specialty ingredients, and baking mixes than I had ever seen.  Every one looked delicious; I had to exercise considerable self-restaint. 

After a fair amount of time at King Arthur's, we were ready for a pub lunch at Harpoon. We were both a little disappointed that the afternoon had become way too hot to eat in their beer garden.  Still, Harpoon fortified us for our next adventure back in Woodstock.

(Jersey cows in soft light provide cream for Cabot and Grafton cheeses)

Across the road from the Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller National Historic Park, the Billings Farm and Museum was the farm that went with the estate. We debated whether to tour the farm.  Besides our own childhood farm experiences, we have visited many places like the Farmer's Museum in Cooperstown.  Did we need to see another one? 

In the end, we decided that the combination of a quilt show in the main display area and our interest in the Billings Farm's relationship to the National Park made this an attraction we shouldn't pass up.  While the farm was interesting and the quilt display beautiful, our greatest fascination did indeed lean toward the connection between the wealthy estate and its farm. 

Besides the economic affiliation, an unusual respect and friendship existed between the mansion's residents on one side of the road and the farm family on the other.  In addition, the farm manager came up with, and put into practice, agricultural methods consistent with the natural resource and conservation philosophies of the wealthy owners.


(corn as high as an elephant's eye)

After walking the mile-long trail past Jersey cows, gentle work horses, tall cornfields and the Ottauqueechee River, we again felt the need for ice cream.  Fortunately, we didn't have to go far.  Museum staff served up generous portions of Vermont's Wilcox ice cream next to the Buttery under a big shade tree.

We lingered as long as possible before heading back to Albany's hot humid 90-plus degree weather.  The rural ride down Route 100 postponed our departure from bucolic scenery, and a stop at the Vermont Country Store in Weston broke up the drive.  By the time we got home, we felt like we had been gone a lot longer than a couple of days, and, after all, Vermont is just across the border.  It shouldn't be that hard to go back for a future getaway.

Skunk Buddies

I have been enjoying nights at home after a packed academic year of evening rehearsals for two orchestras, meetings of the Sierra Club and Adirondack Mountain Club, and regular overnights at my parents' house in Saratoga, as well as an occasional night out with Bill or weekend trips to see our kids.  Summer is a time for reading and I look forward to heading out to our screened-in back porch along about 9:00 most evenings.

Our cat, Ally, follows me wherever I go and joins me on the porch.  For a while, she watches bugs inside, birds and squirrels outside, and then, exhausted by such high-demand activity, falls asleep on the cedar chest next to my seat in the lounge.  Often a cool breeze, as darkness arrives, adds to a sense of complete relaxation. This week I have had the opportunity to be home every night.

Last Sunday, at just about 9:20, I heard a great scuffling just on the other side of the screen.  Ally perked right up.  I spotted a white stripe and a white tail-tip in the darkness.  As my eyes adjusted, I saw a skunk digging in the dirt and scattering leaves.  Ally and I remained very still, watching.  Often, when various critters come around, Ally makes noise, chattering or taking an aggressive stance, but not this time.  I welcomed her quiet behavior with surprise and relief--no scaring this guy, please.

The skunk wandered across the lawn, checked out tidbits under the bird feeder, dug a little in the parched lawn and meandered farther back behind the garage.  Ally fell asleep and I went back to my book, but in about a half-hour, the skunk returned making a steady stride for the front yard, out of my sight.

Over the years, we have occasionally seen skunks, and even more often, we have smelled them.  I remember a time when I always turned on all the lights or carried a flashlight on trips to the garage--no point in surprising our nocturnal neighbors!  Mrs. Mendleson, next door, still talks about the time a skunk went through with her four little kittens, all tumbling over each other in play. Far less appealing, a skunk sprayed our porch this past winter. The stench made my eyes water even as I stood inside the kitchen behind closed doors.  It took weeks for the smell to go away.

I thought little about my summer visitor until the second night, when he came again at just about 9:20.  Ally and I watched quietly, as we had the night before.  And, in about a half-hour, he scampered back through, but this time with a friend! The new skunk was a little smaller, his girlfriend perhaps? She had a lot to say.  Clearly, she was lacing the guy out for something.  Her voice sounded raspy and accusing. 

By the third night, I was ready.  I took my place in the chair with my book and had the garage light on for better viewing.  Both skunks arrived, although a little late, about 9:35.  Apparently, they were a little slow getting out of their house, or had to discuss something first, or wanted to make sure they were both on the same page with this outing.

Despite their delay in appearing, they ambled through quietly until they decided to play.  Rolling over, jumping up, bounding on top of one another, they appeared to be in good humor.  The only part of their antics that alarmed me were their erect tails.  I hoped their fun didn't turn into an argument!  I leaned down closer to the back of the porch to get a better view.  Ally, finding the novelty of me on the floor more fascinating than skunks in the yard, rubbed my face with a loud purr. 

Eventually the smaller skunk headed behind the garage while the larger one sniffed along the driveway right under the outside light.  I had a great view.  Then  he, too, moved on.

A few minutes later, breaking the silent night with a huge bang, a neighbor set off a fire cracker.  Surely, this shocking sound would set off the skunks, but no foul aroma floated my way.


In about a half-hour, they scampered through alongside the porch just as they had each night before. This time I wanted to see where they went.  I went out the front door and turned on the light.  No skunks in sight.  Suddenly, two doors down, a motion-activated light came on. Two skunks bolted across the end of our dead-end street, through a gap in the fence, and into the field beyond.

Now it has been six nights.  Ally and I are getting bored.  When Bill decided that he should watch for the skunks, Ally just flopped on the floor in disinterest.

Although I'm finally making headway in my summer reading, I still like to see if the skunks keep up their routine.  Sure enough, between 9:15 and 9:40, one or both of them shows up.  At the scuffling alongside the porch, I take my eyes from my book but I no longer crawl on hands and knees for a closer look.  Ally barely turns her head. 

We have accepted their nightly visits...as long as they're well-behaved.

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)