This Was My Dream
The traveler is the aggregate of the road.
In gardens by the quiet sea’s shore
the scent of sunburnt hay is with him still,
brought down from the highland meadows hours before.
Wayfarer of a long day’s journeying,
he drew the reins in tight around his heart
and let hard lines of verse take shape within,
molded by depths of spirit into art.
This was my dream. And that the slayer, time,
that leads us off to die or flows in vain,
was just a dream within a mortal mind.
And then I saw a man hold up to view
in naked hands the glowing coal of life,
ashless the fire that Heraclitus knew.
Antonio Machado
I had an earlier start than I had planned on this morning. Pittsfield was foggy and damp but over the hill in New Lebanon it’s clear and sunny. A few clouds to the north, which is where I am heading on this lush, late July day. I cruise past Bolton Landing, reluctantly, I wanted for old time's sake to stop at The Sagamore for a martini, but it’s much too early.
I’m past Keene Valley and at the Adirondack Loj before 11:00 so I decide to, instead of strolling around Heart Lake, take the hike I had planned on doing tomorrow. An easy five miles out to Avalanche Lake.
I am amused to pay $18 to park at the Loj but not so amused to see how many cars the lot now holds. We used to leave a car here for a few days at a time while we hiked and camped often having no itinerary or set schedule once we left the trailhead.
The first time I was up here was to climb Mount Marcy, New York’s tallest peak. When I was offered to join the hike, I was just recently home from a nine-day trek on the Long Trail in Vermont. I was probably in the best shape of my life and there’s no doubt I would never be stronger. After lugging a sixty plus pound pack over the Green Mountains the twenty pounds I carried up Marcy felt like pillow on my back. I practically ran up the eight miles to the summit. It was glorious although not a glorious day weather wise. Views were limited but my excitement was undimmed. Up until then it was the highest peak I had climbed.
One of the guys in our group had spent some time in the Sierras and was chided by the rest of us for his lack of enthusiasm and jaded comments. Now that I’ve thirty years and hundreds of miles of Sierra trails behind me I found myself this morning gazing up at Marcy with no less awe than that wiry hungry kid from a lifetime ago. This morning, I don’t even try to fool myself by thinking I could make it to the top in a single day with my twice broken ankle. Someday maybe.
I make it to Marcy Dam pretty quick. It’s a pleasant two miles. Most of the dam has been removed in the past few years and only the side supports are left. There is a new small foot bridge downstream that crosses the now free flowing Marcy Brook. I’ve camped here several times and one memorable September first morning we woke up to four inches of snow on the tent. It was a lovely white walk back to the Loj.
Onward to Avalanche Lake. Some of the campsites are closed and I see very few people. The trail is as rocky as I remember it and I go gentle on my F-ed up ankle, only banging it two or three times. The day is warm and starts to get cloudy. There are random raindrops but no need for my jacket. At the lake I rest for a while and contemplate going on to Colden Lake which would add a several hours to the hike. It’s already two o’clock. I decide not to and find myself missing that invincible kid with the heroic stamina. He was something all right.
I look up to my left at the slick rock side of Mount Colden. The summit isn’t quite visible from here. I’ve climbed it twice. Once in the pouring rain and once in a thick soupy mist. Both days visibility was zero. Sadly, lingering at the top was not an option. On that rainy day we hustled down and found an unoccupied lean-to on the lake and enjoyed a dry comfortable night. We had a small fire that kept the bugs away.
I ramble back down toward the Loj taking my time and resting often to just enjoy the silence of the woods; bird song and a breeze through the thick forest are the only sounds until I continue my trudging. I meet a couple at the junction of the trail that leads to Marcy. Yesterday they climbed Colden, Wright and Algonquin. Whew!
I’ve climbed Algonquin as well, the second highest peak in the state. I don’t how it happened but somehow that day we got on a trail that was not maintained and was supposed to be closed to hikers. We found this out after talking to a ranger at the trailhead when we got down the other side. We told him about the difficulty of keeping on the trail and how we had to guess the path in some spots. He figured out our error and we all laughed about it. That was yet another overcast day with poor visibility but at least we had fair glimpses of Colden and Marcy.
Back at the Loj my ankle is pretty sore although after ten miles I’m not surprised.
I’m sitting on my balcony at The Devlin, formerly the Art Devlin Olympic Motor Inn, with a generous view of Mount Marcy. The famous Winter Olympic ski jump towers loom off to my left. As so often after a rigorous hike I find I can’t really sit still or relax so I walk the mile to downtown and look for something to eat. Main Street is busy with tourists, many foreign languages being spoken, and once again I find myself looking in the windows of junk stores. A shop of Tibetan imports seems the most out of place. I don’t go in.
I find a restaurant and have a cold beer as delicious as you would imagine after my long day. The menu, however, has nothing to entice me. Since my most recent drive across America this past spring I’m not overwhelmed by the generic fare encountered everywhere. And now that I think of it I haven’t seen a decent wine list since Santa Fe. And even that one needed some fine tuning.
I walk back toward The Delvin and find a pizza joint that is doing a brisk takeout business, so I pick one up (mushroom and anchovy) and bring it to my room. I put on Going For The One, an album that was a big part of the soundtrack on the first trips I took up here. The song Turn of the Century gives me a jolt of emotion, and the memories of those trips overwhelm me. I have another beer while I eat and watch the clouds get lower and lower and thicker and thicker until it starts to pour. Marcy disappears and the flashing light on top of the ski jump dims until it is barely visible through the rain.
It’s still raining when I wake up early but looks like it’s starting to clear. Putting on my reading glasses I find I have lost a lens. I can’t find it anywhere, so I read some of Antonio Machado’s poems with one eye closed. The great poet Jim Harrison only had one eye, and he was an epic reader. So, I feel it would be bad form to complain.
In solidarity with my swollen ankle instead of hiking I decide to take the short drive to Saranac Lake where I have never been. It’s not as crowded as Placid but still busier than my home lake, Pontoosuc. How did Pittsfield escape the fate of this edge of the Adirondacks with the horde of tourists I’ve encountered? Bigger and more mountains perhaps. The historic Winter Olympic sights no doubt play a part. I hope when the day comes when there is a charge to park at the base of Mount Greylock I will be long gone. Compared to Saranac and Placid the Berkshires are still less busy and cheaper. Do we miss the tourist tax revenue? Well, we never had it to begin with.
I see a sign for the Trudeau Institute and take the road toward the lake and grounds. Much research was done here on tuberculosis and seeing Grandpa Ferdyn died of it and as a kid I had to get vaccine shots twice a year, I’ve always been curious and scared of the condition. The place looks very serene and seems like a fine place to rest and recuperate. Years ago, I read a book called Saranac about the work of Dr. Trudeau.
The rain has stopped although wispy clouds still hide the high peaks. I park back at the motel and walk downtown again and get a sandwich at a small deli. On the walk back I notice the menu at The Grand Adirondack Hotel and see that they serve duck wings. Well, I never…. I plan on coming back for the cocktail hour.
I also see a brochure for the John Brown farmhouse. I didn’t know (or did I?) that the great abolitionist lived up here. I do know he was tried and hanged for his raid on Harpers Ferry, Virginia. In college I read Thoreau’s A Plea for Captain John Brown, which is a good short biography of the man.
I drive out to the farmhouse, just a few miles from The Devlin, and find that Captain Brown is buried there as well. I stand in the mist near his grave for a few minutes pondering how here in the shadow of Mount Marcy did this brave man find his way to this little town.
Marcy comes out of the clouds. Its native name, Mohawk I think, is Tahawus. It means Cloud Splitter. This I learned from a plaque on the summit that I still have a photo of.
I never knew (or did I?) until today that you can drive to the top of Whiteface Mountain and instead of further damaging my ankle this seems like a great idea.
Twenty bucks for the privilege at a toll stop at the base. Again, I feel grateful to have Mt Greylock in my backyard whose road, twice as long as that of Whiteface, is still free to drive.
At the almost top there is the obligatory gift shop and a small cafe. Also, there’s about a quarter mile trail with iron railings that follows a ridge to the summit. As I start up the steps the clouds move in. I slowly navigate the slick rock favoring my good ankle. A bit a vertigo, a new sensation for me when climbing, catches me by surprise when I put pressure on the bad foot while looking down at an old avalanche scar.
At the top, which I share with about twenty other people, we are in the mist. Every now and again the clouds lift enough to see Lake Placid and it’s a lovely sight. The mountains I have climbed, and drove up here to see; Marcy, Colden and Algonquin, are completely hidden. Which, truth be told, cheers me up. And not only because I’m fond of high cold places. It’s an excuse to make another trip to the high peaks region this year. I shuffle down to the Jeep and then back to The Delvin. Late afternoon finds me on the balcony reading, one-eyed, Machado.
I walked up to town after first being turned back by a swift and heavy downpour that soaked me, and I had to change into dry clothes. After all day of anticipating duck wings, I find that the bar at the Grand Adirondack Hotel is closed on Tuesdays. “No duck wings tonight.”, I’m told at the front desk. I don’t feel like wandering around town and I still have half a pizza in the mini fridge. Back on the balcony, cold pizza, cold beer and the mist hovering on the peaks.
A rainy morning. My plan is to go to Vermont and catch Route Seven at Middlebury and take it right to Pontoosuc Lake.
Seize the day, the poet Horace famously wrote. I feel I’m better than most at taking advantage of what random gifts are hurtled my way. Oddly enough I found that I have two copies of his book of odes. I’ve brought a beautiful translation with me because one of my projects is that any hotel I stay at if I find a Bible I like to slip an alternate book of wisdom next to it in the bedside drawer. You never know when someone seeking illumination would love the opportunity for some secular verses as opposed the nonsense that is found in the Old Testament. So now The Delvin, room 38, is equipped with a choice of reading material. I am not fooling myself though. I’m sure not one person in a thousand sits in their hotel room and reads the Bible. Anyone who is that devout, I’m sure, carries their own copy on their travels. Worst case scenario is perhaps that over the years I have contributed, in a very small way, to the enlightenment, or entertainment, of a housekeeper or two. It truly would be something if the break rooms of hotels I’ve stayed at have kept the books that have been gifted by me on my wanderings. Well, you never know.
The complete quote is “Seize the day, and put the least possible trust in tomorrow.” And seeking a thought for the day before I put The Odes in the drawer and drive south, I read this; “Pale death, with impartial step, knocks at the hut of the poor and the towers of kings.”
It’s a rural drive toward Lake Champlain. I pass small towns, corn fields, ride alongside rivers and streams until I come to the lake. At a stop light near the Crown Point Bridge, I read a sign that lists all the sightings of Champ, the Adirondack’s own Loch Ness Monster. The first on the list is Samuel de Champlain himself. In 1609 no less! The light turns green and now I’m anticipating the view from the bridge. I figure I’ve as good of a chance as anyone to see Champ. No luck, the waters are calm on this windless morning and Champ remains as elusive as all the other monsters and aliens who hover on the edge of our myths and imagination.
For the next two hours I drive in the rain, music turned up, until I am back near the shore of lovely and uncrowded Pontoosuc Lake.
Discography:
Yes — Going For The One, Close To The Edge & Tales Of Topographic Oceans
Genesis — Duke & And Then There Were Three
Renaissance — Live at Carnegie Hall
Van Morrison — No Guru, No Method, No Teacher — (Here Comes The Knight)
Bibliography:
The Adirondacks — Paul Schneider
The Collected Poems of Antonio Machado
The Odes of Horace
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