Olana State Historical Site

Olana State Historical Site, New York

I am not an architecture aficionado by any means. I'm usually too interested in natural things. Don’t get me wrong, I like interesting buildings, but I rarely go out of my way to see one. I am fascinated by Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater, but actually taking the time to visit it has never been high on my agenda. I’ve never even been in the Empire State Building in spite of the fact that my grandfather was one of the steelworkers who erected the original mooring mast on the building before it was replaced by the broadcast antenna that currently sits atop the massive Manhattan edifice. On the rare occasion I do visit a historical building, I normally am consumed by taking a microscopic view, or rather a series of microscopic views, camera in hand, searching for good photo ops and imagining what someone who lived in the place experienced in day-to-day life. I look for the odd shape of a window pane, how light showing through a skylight casts a shadow on other elements in the room, a rusty portcullis, the flaking pain around a doorjamb…that sort of stuff. My approach to Olana was no different.

I have lost track of how many times I have driven past Exit 21 on the Thruway, saw the brown-and-white road sign, and paid no attention to it what-so-ever. I knew what it was, but I had little interest in stopping. I was either on my way to Vermont or to Pennsylvania, or (even worse, I suppose) on my way to Windham Ski Area which is off the same exit, but in the opposite direction. Olana was always an afterthought. In fact, much of the Hudson Valley is an afterthought to me. Maybe “afterthought” is a strong word. Let’s say “also-thought”. Given my passion for the outdoors and the environmental movement, one would think I would have an attraction to the early period of “wilderness” themed art and writing that came from this area.

The fact is I don’t. Cole, Cropsey, and Church to me symbolize fantasy, not reality. They were from an era where the wilderness was still feared. It was something that needed to be tamed. Man’s job was to carve out the wilderness, but was never a part of it. Cole’s art in particular annoys me. Wondrous landscapes, often exaggerated in their grandeur, always contained some element of man’s hand…a road, a horse and rider, a distant farm. Church, being a disciple of Cole started his career painting in such the same manner. Following Cole’s death, Church began a modest road to redemption and little by little began to focus on the landscape, eliminating man’s presence. I say “a modest road” because by this time much of the surrounding hills had been obliterated by man. The logging industry and the need for pastures to support the wool industry had devastated the Hudson and Delaware valleys. Perhaps this is why Church went on grand voyages around the world looking for new subjects. What he saw around him had been ravaged by the wheels of the infant Industrial Revolution. What had been the American frontier only a few decades before was now a series of coal-smoking, brick and iron towns connected by turnpikes and canals. I suddenly began to understand where Church was coming from…perhaps.

Frederic Church was a man of means. His art showings were akin to a present-day theatrical blockbuster premier. His constructing a home befitting of an artist such as himself was inevitable. Like many other significant persons of his day, the Hudson Valley was the place to be. However, many of his contemporaries built summer cottages and retreats from their city homes. Church was different. Olana would become his permanent home.

Our tour of Olana was confined to the actual house and the visitor’s center. Rambling around the vast expanses of property would have to wait for another day. However, it came as a bit of a surprise to me that the vast majority of the building and additions to the house were done after Church’s artwork ceased to be the talk of the town. American tastes were changing. The American landscape was changing. Olana became Church’s focus.

The same attention to detail Church had once put into his masterpieces on canvas he now put into the design and decoration of his estate. This wasn’t just relegated to the buildings, but to the grounds, the farm, the gardens, and the miles of carriage roads he built on his property. While the surrounding landscape of his neighbors to the south) Church became, at best, a fledgling conservationist. He planted massive amounts of trees of dozens of varieties on his hillsides only to break them up by carriage paths. The house’s Persian design, while wholly unique even by today’s standards, contains classical elements of middle-eastern floral and geometric patterns. Local stone blends with earth-tone colored brick. The mingling of man and nature reminiscent of his earlier works can be seen throughout the grounds. Church’s use of large plate glass windows throughout the home allow one to gaze upon the natural surroundings as if they were looking at one of his paintings. Olana was, in my opinion, Church’s obsession and attempt to relive his past. However, unlike his previous masterpieces which were intended to gain him fame and fortune, Olana was for his family and friends. It is not opulent, quite the opposite in fact. It was a home, it was intimate, and it was lived-in. Its grand staircase/stage was use for parlor performances. Friends were likely to find a crash space on a bed in a hallway if no other room was available.

Still in all, I found myself consumed by the decorations and the details of Church’s designs. Perhaps because, while now things of museum piece quality: the hats, the tea cups, the frayed sofa, the Aztec sculptures, the taxidermy peacock, a piano, these things were once used and were bit parts of the Church family’s life. Instead of looking through the glass windows at the scenery, I looked at the windows, searching for where the stem had been cut from the plate. I stared at the patterns in the tile work, trying to imagine things in the way Church might have done. I gradually became lost in the details of the home, probably in the same manner Church did and upon departing began to rethink my opinions of the man himself.

Olana is less than an hour's drive south of Albany, New York. The grounds are open during the day throughout the year. Organized tours of the house and studio are available Tuesday through Sunday, and holiday Mondays, from April to October. From November to March, tours are conducted Friday through Sunday. Reservations are recommended, but not required, for groups of fewer than 15 people. (518) 828-0135 www.olana.org.

"Sno" Mountain Resort.

I’ll start out by giving some trivia which should set the stage. SnoMountian is located on a road named Montage Mountain Road (the resort used to be called Montage, but I refuse to call it Sno least it be confused with Mount Snow in Vermont.) and Montage Mountain Road is actually on Moosic Mountain, but I suppose “Moosic Mountain Ski Area” wasn’t flashy enough in the early ‘80s when the resort opened. These facts support my belief that no matter who runs the place, or what they choose to call it, one should beware of the marketing department.

I was a regular skier here from 1992-1999. This was essentially my home mountain and I skied there 2-3 times a week because of it’s proximity to my home and the ridiculously low lift ticket prices there when the resort was run by Lackawanna County. (You truly do get what you pay for.) A few years ago, around 2006, the county sold the resort to a private company and every skier in the area quietly rejoiced in the hope that someone with actual experience would now be running the place. In the past, lift attendants were rumored to be minor offenders serving community service time and it was widely alleged that the managers got their jobs due to who they know in the country courthouse. Things have not gotten much better.

On my last trip there in January 2010, lift attendants were smoking while loading, and were seen texting on their phones while loading as well. I voiced my concern about that to one of their on-snow “Skier Awareness Team” members (basically wanna-be patrollers who probably can’t pass the NSP medical tests) and they said they would look into it. Not more than 30 seconds later one of the “Safety Team” members flew by me on a snowboard so quickly and so close, I could have easily slammed the buffoon with my arm. “Safety Team” my sweet $%&*##!

The new management team did install a bunch of new snowmaking machinery and to their credit, has put it to good use. In the ‘90s, at least 3-4 slopes would regularly go without snowmaking the entire season. Since I moved back to the area and started skiing there 2-3 times a year I have to say that trails I hadn’t seen snow in since the Blizzard of ’93 were once again open and groomed. Likewise, additional connectors and a gladed area had been added to terrain that had a reputation for being bare.

Unfortunately, the overall conditions at Sno have not changed. The top portions of the mountain tend to be icy at night and can range from icy to slushy during the day. The western facing mountain takes a lot of sun during the day and can get really sloppy until sunset, then the temperature drop and skier use turns it to boilerplate by 6:30pm. The lower portion of the resort, where the expert runs are, will tend to stay soft and ice free most of the day and into the evening as well.

Two or three hours are all any expert skier needs to spend at Sno. The lower trails, Cannonball, Smoke, and Boomer are all excellent runs and Lower Fast Track and Lower Runaway can also be fun excursions. The coup-de-gras is White Lightning. It is a short, but steep run almost always bumped up and it can tend to be icy because lots of people who shouldn’t be on bumps still try to ride it. To its credit, if it were longer, it would be more difficult than Killington’s Outer Limits.

The cafeteria is overpriced, the gift shop is under stocked and overpriced, and the staff is less than professional. A friend of mine went to inquire at Skier Services about an upcoming deal Sno was offering. He had a copy of the flyer with some information and the girl at the counter stated she had no idea about what he was asking about and no one there had any other information. Another similarly Hollister-clad teen-queen was working the cafeteria register and had difficulty ringing up my chicken fingers and fries. I attempted to give her the odd change needed so she could give me back two quarters in change. This perplexed her, but she giggled at her poor mathematical skills. Awww…how cute.

The ski school is either inept or my buddy’s girlfriend really is the moron he claims she is because she’s taken at least five lessons over the past two years and still can’t get down the easy slopes in under 40 minutes.

Overall, if you are driving to SnoMountain from the south, just stay on I-81 North for a few more miles and take the exit for Elk Mountain. Save yourself some grief and skip on Sno. If you are a local, it’s an OK place for a few hours, every couple of weeks, but becomes old-hat very quickly. Of course, if there is a blinding snow storm all bets are off and the terrain can be really great, so you won’t mind the second-hand smoke from the liftie as you wait to get on the chair.

Snowshoe, West Virginia

I’m going to start by saying that I almost never ski-and-stay at a self-contained resort. The notion of parking my car and not moving it for four days is both a novelty and also prevents me from spreading my money around. I almost always never stay in resort accommodations and normally try to go to an area where I can hit up several resorts on my vacation. I have nothing against those of you who like to move into a condo and ski the same resort for several days, I’m just saying that’s usually not for me. Due to its remoteness, Snowshoe doesn’t really allow for that sort of thing, and for two years I had been hearing wonderful things about the resort, so I shifted gears and booked four nights at the Allegheny Springs condos, slopeside, at Snowshoe.

Since my non-skiing wife was accompanying me on this trip, I purposefully chose the accommodations close to the spa, hot-tubs, and other amenities so she wouldn’t have to go all over the place to do something. As it turned out, she slept until 10:30 every morning and confined herself to the room reading, catching up with social networking sites, and napping on the couch. I didn’t object…it was her vacation too.

Getting to Snowshoe was an experience in itself. Coming there from the northeast is probably the longest way to get there. Just looking at the maps, I know why Snowshoe can draw from Ohio, Virginia, and the Carolinas with more ease than it can from the Mid-Atlantic. After leaving the Interstate in Strasburg, VA we were on two lane roads for all but a short stretch where WV-55 is being turned into a freeway. From Strasburg it was 3.5 hours to Snowshoe. This was the route suggested to me by the reservationist when I phoned the day before to check on the best route since I had been told Highway 66 was prone to high snow drifts and was periodically closed. (That was the way Yahoo Maps and my GPS both said I should go.) Thankfully I only needed to throw my truck into 4WD once when crossing the high areas on the Pocahontas County line and then again when we actually got onto the Snowshoe access road. Like Vermont, the roads to the resorts get plowed frequently.

Check-In was easy and the desk agents, Wes and Morgan, were helpful and very friendly. Prior to coming I had made arrangements with the Ski Patrol to procure discounted tickets, which I was told I would have to get at The Depot. To my pleasure, Wes was able to print out my tickets right at the Allegheny Springs desk, thus saving me from going halfway across the resort the next day. So far, so good!

I was a bit disappointed with the size of the Junior Studio Room we chose. While it was well apportioned with a two-burner stove, a small refrigerator, toaster, and a full size microwave, I could see no way how four people could stay and function in the room as it was advertised. The dining area was a tiny against-the-wall bar shoved into the entry nook, there was very little closet space, and no room in the cupboards for food storage. There was about 12 inches of space between the wall and the side of the queen sized bed and no end table or other storage space on that side of the bed. The bathroom was too large and the designers could have easily shaved three feet out of the bathroom and given the main room more space. Likewise, I have no idea where we would have put the trunk/coffee table that contained the bedding for the pull-out couch if we did have four in our room. We barely had enough room for the two of us. Our room was available for sale at $144,000. Not a bad investment, but I wouldn’t use it as a vacation place on a regular basis. I would instead allow the sales team at Intrawest rent it out to unsuspecting suckers like me.


Thankfully, the remainder of the Allegheny Springs complex was superb, and since I was there to ski, I didn’t mind not spending a lot of time in my room. The courtyard between the two wings contained an outdoor heated pool with a connected hot tub (the cooler hot tub) and a separate hot-tub which was much warmer and thus more popular. Nevertheless, families could be found swimming in the large pool even while the air temperature hovered in the low 20’s. Full size storage lockers easily capable of holding four sets of skis and several ski bags were located in the lower level of the condo complex adjacent to the ski shop and a hallway lead directly out to the slopes near the Ballhooter lift. This was extremely convenient. Similarly, one could exit stage left and walk right into the main village complex where shops and dining were available, much as they are at other Intrawest resorts. It was very Stratton-esque.

Another reason I chose Snowshoe was because of the massive amount of snow that had fallen this season on the area. The Poconos had only reaped the rewards of one really good snowfall so far and Vermont had suffered rain and poor conditions all season. I witnessed that first hand in January and further calls to the North Country had not yielded a good prognosis. Snowshoe, much to my happiness, was covered in snow! My first run down the Blue-Square Ballhooter trail confirmed how good the snow was. There was no way it had seen the groomer the night before. There were too many tracks, but yet the snow was still loose and I was making effortless turns. Then I came to the bottom…a bit more sooner than I expected. The promo materials put forth by the Intrawest Ministry of Propaganda state the Vertical Drop is 1500 feet. There was no freaking way what I just skied had that much drop. So I continued to ski around the resort, enjoying the wonderful conditions on the trails near the Soaring Eagle lift. The Sawmill Glades were kinda pre-fab glades, but good for the average Snowshoe clientele. Camp 99 was the most challenging slope I found all day, and it wasn’t much of a challenge for someone who spent six years skiing the major resorts of Vermont. I began the first day at 9:30am and by 2:30 had pretty much skied everything at the main resort area except the terrain park and a green trail I wasn’t going to bother with. I still had yet to find anything of considerable length or anything with a high degree of difficulty. The snow conditions, however, remained excellent throughout the day.

Once back in the hotel room I fired up the computer and logged onto Google Earth. Just as I had expected, Google Earth put the top of the Ballhooter lift at 4758’ and the base at 4072’. You wanna do the math? No? OK, I’ll save you the trouble. It’s 686’! Further playing with Google Earth revealed that the slopes on the Western Territory section were much longer (1426’) but still short of the purported 1500’.

Luckily the Western Territory was on my schedule for the next day, but first I wanted to hit the Silver Creek area a mile away from the main resort. I started late the next day, not getting out of my hotel until almost 10am and then I had to wait for the shuttle and spend some time on the bus. Upon arrival I easily cruised Robertson’s Run (a Green) and then rode the lift to the top of Fox Chase in the anticipation of heading to the couple of Black-Diamonds that were on the far skier’s left. Much to my chagrin, I found the connectors were roped off and I was confined to Fox Chase. Did I miss something? Perplexed as to how to access the other slopes I asked the lift attendant who informed me they would open those trails around noon. Noon? I remarked, “It’s barely 10:30!” So I proceeded to ski the rest of Silver Creek. I relegated myself to staying on the Cascade chair except for one ride on the Cubb Run lift. The massive 395’ vertical drop kept me occupied for about an hour and I quickly polished off the five other open runs several times over before I ducked into the snack shop at the base and leisurely sipped a Seattle’s Best coffee. At 11:45 I took the chair back up to the top of Fox Run and waited again for a bit before I descended to the crossover, which by now was finally open. The other two dozen skiers and riders who were at Silver Creek did the same thing. I was happy to find fresh snow since it had been snowing all night, but again, the length and grade of the trail weren’t anything remarkable. I took three runs on Flying Eagle and two on Bear Claw before I decided to head over to the Western Territory.

The shuttle arrived soon after I got to the stop and the ride to the top of the Territory area was quick. I decided to first try Cupp Run in spite of the warning from the departing guest that it was windy and I would be cold. Surprisingly, Cupp Run was actually a good run. While the snow here wasn’t as quality as it was in other parts of the resort, nonetheless it was not icy and the length of the piste was commendable. There were some longer dropping sections and a few short flat spots along the trail which made for a nice variety. I had the quad to myself on the way up. It was mid-week. The traffic was low and I was fine with that. Next was Shay’s Revenge. The upper section was not remarkable. The snow was great, but there wasn’t anything particularly hard, then came a long flat spot which led to the mogul area. The moguls are signed Double-Black. It was not a particularly long section but I still haven’t mastered skiing bumps on telemarks, so to me it was the most challenging slope I found. Had it been groomed out I would have dropped that section in two turns…no problem. It wasn’t big or steep. I played on these two slopes for an hour or so and decide to head back to the condo around 3:00pm.

My third day started out with a run down Grabhammer (a Black Diamond) and a lift ride on the Powder Monkey lift with the intention of hopping the road and hitting the Western Territory again. Instead, noting the amount of loose snow under the lift, hit that instead and was very happy I did. While not steep, the Choker (another diamond) was rather fun and now it was time to head over to the Western Territory. I spent an hour and half over there before returning again to the main Snowshoe area where I proceeded again to ski Sawmill, Camp 99, and Soaring Eagle several times. As usual, I skipped lunch and skied through the noon hour rarely waiting more than one chair to load the lift. Short runs and faster lifts meant a lot of slope time and by 2:30 I was bored once again. Thus ended my skiing time at Snowshoe.

While there we dined at the Hot Dog place that featured Taco Hot Dogs as well as a deep-fried PB&J sandwich sundae…totally awesome grub. A Taste of Asia had excellent food but the service was lacking. The Junction was good, well-priced, but not spectacular. The Foxfire Grill however was the best ski-trip dining experience I’ve had in a long time. Our waiter, Paul, was extremely attentive and very prompt. My rack of ribs were excellent, my wife’s salmon was delicious (I tried it) and for dessert we had DIY S’mores. We were given a basket of S’mores fixin’s and a small metal firepot with which we toasted the marshmallows on. This was hands-down the coolest dessert I think I ever had in a restaurant. Paul admitted that it is very popular and when they run out of an ingredient there is a small revolt among both the staff and the patrons.

In spite of the shorter-than-expected trails, I had a wonderful time and would return if I was running a trip with a large group of intermediate skiers who wanted a vacation that involved skiing…but maybe not a “ski trip.” The snow conditions were excellent but Snowshoe is at best a beginner-to-intermediate resort well suited for families, couples, and college kids who only get to ski a couple days a year.

http://www.snowshoemtn.com

South Jersey Paddling & More

My wife, Nancy, and I headed to southern New Jersey the last week in September for some R&R. She, having grown up in north Jersey, was a beach-brat as a kid. I can count the amount of times I have touched salt water using only single digits. I'm a lousy swimmer and the thought of sitting around on the sand day-after-day or prowling the boardwalk night-after-night really didn't do much for me as a kid nor does it do too much for me now. But now I have a kayak, so I have something to do while Nancy does her things.

We checked into our hotel in Wildwood on a Sunday afternoon. It was three weeks after Labor Day, so it was more like "Mild"wood. A few families were still here for a late season getaway, but mostly it was dead except for the dozen or so buses filled senior citizen tour groups. OK, maybe not dead, but close enough. We arrived just in time for one roller coaster ride before that too closed for the season and managed to get some fries at Curly's before they too closed up shop. Thankfully there were twenty to thirty stores on the Boardwalk still open this late on a Sunday to make my "Wildwood '09" T-shirt buying needs quite uncomplicated!


We were actually staying about 100 feet from Wildwood. Our hotel was in Wildwood Crest which is not the same thing. Judging by the signs on the beach I get the feeling that the town fathers are people who have never had a day of fun in their whole lives.

Thankfully the sign didn't say anything about kayaks. (Although if it did I would have definitely put-in just to get a ticket.)

Monday was a non-kayaking day as well. This was recon day and I also wanted to take in some of the local flavor, so we headed down to Cape May, climbed up the lighthouse, and I got some info about the local kayaking opportunities from the nice ranger-lady at the park. She told me about some places in the estuary where I could see a lot of birds and would have nice easy paddle. Perfect! Just what I wanted. Although the ocean was only a few hundred yards across the street and over the sand, there was a small storm off the coast and the waves were still pretty strong. A leisurely paddle through the estuary looking at herons and egrets what just what I wanted. I also stopped in a bookstore in Cape May hoping to find a local paddling guidebook, but to no avail. All I found was a useful book on Sea Kayaking. I wasn't going to drop $30 on the book, but I did refresh my memory on some techniques while I paged through it.

It's always good to find a winery when scoping out
kayaking locations!

We browsed shop after shop in Cape May, which was surprisingly busy this late in the season. Purchases were made, Lunch was eaten, Skee-Ball was played, and we stopped by the Cape May Winery. I'm not a wine connoisseur by any means. I find most wines a wine-snob would prefer to be too dry for my palate. I'm a cheap, fruity wine kinda guy, and Nancy isn't a big wine drinker either, but the winery had some Concord and Riesling styles we enjoyed and found refreshing. I met one of the owners who happens to be the niece of a man who owns a bakery close to my hometown which is known for its boxed pizza. (That would be Senape's Pitza of Hazleton, PA fame....another story for another day.) On the way back to Wildwood we stopped by a kayak rental place suggested by the ranger-lady and I spoke to the woman there about launching my boat there the next day. She told me they would be closed on Tuesday but I could pay $5 now and sign the required release now and just show up whenever I wanted the next day. Good enough for me.

Tuesday morning came quickly and Nancy dropped me off at the launch while she headed off to a day spa for a manicure and pedicure. She would be back in three hours or so pick me up and we would get some lunch. Fair enough. I quickly unloaded the boat and got my gear together blissfully ready to hit the water. The woman at the launch had given me a map the day before and had drawn out some routes she suggested. I used that as reference material, but was determined to get somewhat lost in the marshes anyway. I marked the launch spot on my GPS just in case I really did get lost, but primarily kept the GPS on only so I could track my route and see how far I paddled.

Clam beds are easy to find in the marsh

I had to paddle over an open expanse of water for a few hundred yards to get to the grassy marshes. This was rather easy because the wind was at my back and I closed the distance from the launch to the first channel in no time. The sun was out, the sky was clear, it was warm for the last week of September as well and once I was in the channels and blocked from the wind by the high grasses I didn't need the windbreaker I was wearing. I also stashed my spray skirt. It proved to be unnecessary and I wanted easier access to my camera (which was stowed in a dry bag.) The water in the channels was a lot shallower than I expected it to be. I checked the depth several times with my paddle and mostly found it to be only two or three feet deep. The mud on the bottom no doubt was probably several feet thick, so dumping my kayak was still something I wanted to avoid. While there was exposed soil in a lot of places where the grasses were, it was mostly soft mud and home to hundreds of clams.

Great Egret wading along the shore

Some of the channels were narrow and the saw grasses and reeds brushed up against me as I paddled by, others were wide and allowed for a lot of leeway as cruised up and down them. Some led to other channels and some were dead-ends that forced me to backtrack. Eventually I made it back to the main channel. While wading birds and waterfowl were frequent sightings in the narrower channels, they were abundant in the main channel. Most of the species were unknown to me and I had to consult a bird guidebook after the trip. Great Egrets seemed to dominate the marshes. Much like their cousins, the Great Blue Herons, they are hard to get close to for great observation. Watching them wade through the water and then take flight as I came too close was still a very neat thing. I would try to steer clear of them much of the time because I get annoyed when someone bothers me while I'm eating, so I figured the egrets rightfully would be annoyed as well. In addition to the egrets and sandpipers I had some ducks fly-by several times, of course never when I had my camera ready, and I could only assume they were Black Ducks. I eventually paddled under the Garden State Parkway and took a look at the GPS to see how far I was away from the launch. I had been out for about two hours and was only a mile from where I started, however after checking the route noticed I had paddled close to three miles. These channels meander quite a bit so I calculated it would take me about an hour to get back to the launch site. I stopped a few times on the way back noting the human-constructed platforms where eagles had built nests and I stopped to view some more egrets. As the channel opened up I became exposed to the breeze blowing in from the ocean, so my paddling was now more laborious than it was on the way out, but I returned to the launch without event and about five minutes later my chauffeur/wife arrived, I loaded the boat, and we headed off to lunch.

The next day we biked around Wildwood in the morning and headed over to Stone Harbor for some shopping in early afternoon. The surf had calmed down from what it had been when we arrived. It was now Wednesday and I was determined to at least get out into the ocean at least once. It was late in the afternoon by the time I got my stuff together. I hadn't planned to stay out very long, but years of survival training had me in a paranoid mindset. I packed two quarts of water, a GPS, a flashlight with a strobe, and a few Clif bars into one dry bag and my cell phone and my MP3 player/FM radio into an other dry bag. I don't know what I was planning to use the MP3 player for. Possibly to have something to listen to while I ate a Clif bar as the Search & Rescue helicopter comes to pick me up after the tide washes me out to sea and if the batteries in the GPS go dead?

I drug my boat and all the gear across the wide spance of beach. Two hundred yards to the surf and I would be there. I put my gear in the kayak, pulled my spray skirt over my waist and secured my paddle leash to the boat. I sat in the kayak and began to fasten the spray skirt as the inbound waves surrounded the hull. I set the paddle across the cockpit and placed my hands on the sand, lifting the boat just a few inches while the surf came in again. Little by little I inched my way into the ocean, lifting and pushing towards the sea and then quickly grabbing the paddle to push out even further. This sequence repeated itself several times until I actually drew enough water to just be able to paddle. Things however don't quite go as I plan.

Most people, even if they aren't good swimmers, would scoff at being intimidated by a three-foot wave. For most adults a wave this size would come up to the hips. That same wave takes on an entire different look when you are sitting on the beach as opposed to wading in the surf. CRASH!

No sooner had I made it into water deep enough to not be stuck in the sand, then was I hit by a wave and quickly swamped by the salty water. Rolling the kayak really wasn't an option since I was only in water a foot deep and before I knew what had happened I was already being pushed onto the beach by the waves. I staggered undaunted out of the water pulling my boat behind me. After a few minutes to take stock of the situation (and allow the water to drain out of the boat) I readied myself for take #2.

With my boat pointed to the sea I entered the cockpit while the hull of the kayak was still safely on the sand. The water lapped at the bow as I secured the spray skirt yet again. Once snug, I slowly pushed my way towards the surf another time. Little by little I inched into the water quickly switching from pushing the kayak with my hands to paddling and then quickly switching back to pushing. This went on for a minute or so until I could get deep enough into the ocean so I could just paddle. Eventually I cleared the first set of breakers, then the trough, and then the second set of breakers. Phew! Fighting the waves was a chore. I seriously doubt that the people I've encountered who go to the beach once a year and tell me, "Oh, we kayak in the ocean all the time" actually do this. Most of them I've met can barely manage a kayak on flat water. My arms were beat and I paddle almost daily. Once I cleared the breakers I was elated and I turned my boat parallel to the coast and headed south.

My respite lasted all but a few minutes. I was able to paddle a few minutes before I started noting the rolling waves were getting larger and I was drifting closer to the shore. First a wave rolled harmlessly under me, then a second one, and then a third. Each time I seemed to rise and fall just a bit further than the last. This was starting to feel like the roller coaster from Sunday! I continued on, dropping and rising just a bit more. Then I peered out to the sea and noticed a very large wave rolling my way. Somehow I knew this sucker was going to get me. I thought it would roll over me, so prepared to get swamped. I positioned myself to roll with the wave and use my momentum to pop back up, but the wave broke right under me and instead of rolling to my right, I was tossed to my left and was no where close to being in a position to roll the kayak. Before I could get myself twisted around under the water, another wave pushed me closer to the beach. Rolling was no longer an option since my face was now in the sand. Time to unceremoniously wet-exit.

By now I was spent. Once again I dragged my butt and boat back to the beach.

Atlantic Ocean:2, Bill:0

Oh well....live and learn. The North Atlantic is no place for a 12.5 foot kayak and the Jersey shore is no place for a mountain boy.

Paddling in the Bashakill Wildlife Refuge, New York

Sometime in early July I found myself cruising the backroads of southern Orange county New York when, thanks to a detour, I found the Walkill National Wildlife Refuge. I eagerly looked up info on this area as soon as I got home, and filed it for future reference. In my research I also discovered the Bashakill Wildlife Preserve, just slightly to the north of the Walkill. I thought that paddling both of these areas in the same day sounded like a good idea. Two somewhat lazy rivers ripe with birds and wetland plants each only a few miles long would make for a great day of discovery.

My friend Rachel had been asking me to take her on some sort of an adventure for a few weeks. Several attempts were made throughout the summer but between the cold, rainy summer weather and my crazy schedule, I still wasn't able to do anything with her. Thankfully she didn't have to start her fall semester until after Labor Day, and few days before I had some time in my schedule and we had a break in the weather.

Few of my trips ever seem to go off without a hitch. Thanks to some delays courtesy of my ill dog, my morning plans went haywire. I had planned to leave around 8am, it was now close to 11am as we got on the road. Thankfully, we encountered no traffic and made it to the Bashakill area sometime around noon. The put-in spots weren't very well marked. I had just been over this way a few weeks earlier when traveling to the Shawanagunks and didn't even realize that the wildlife area was here. It's kind of hidden in plain sight, thus I think it gets overlooked quite often. My plan was to put-in at the south end of the refuge and paddle upstream to the north. Instead, I nearly missed the road at the northern end as well.

There was fairly large parking area a few hundred feet away from the put-in spot, a gravel and mud embankment off the side of a bridge. Some colorful locals were there fishing and a few of them had parked at the launch spot, thus not leaving a lot of room. After unloading and moving the car to the lot, we shoved off. Rachel had only been kayaking a few times before and didn't want to do something dangerous, but at the same time she had grown bored with the Upper Delaware. So had I, so this worked out well.

Initially, we encountered some expected litter. A plastic bottle here and a bait container there, not to mention the expected lost bobbers and some tangled fishing line, but after we paddled around the first bend it became fairly pristine and after only a hundred yards we spotted a Painted Turtle taking in some late summer rays. It was a nice day. The summer had been exceptionally cool and rainy and a sunny day with highs in the low 70s was a very welcome change.

A trip here a few weeks earlier would have had us paddling the channel during the height of Pickerelweed season. Most of the blue/purple stalks had started to wilt by the time we got there, but nonetheless they were still fairly full and gave harbor to several Great Blue Herons. We saw several throughout the day.

We zig-zagged back and forth through the wetland for about two hours, stopping frequently to gaze upon more herons, turtles, lilies, and other plants that are found in abundance along the Bashakill. It was by no means a challenging river, but I don't think that's why people come to this place. We passed only two other boats the whole day, both on the way downstream. We could hear a few people making some noise at one of the launches near the southern end of this section, but we didn't paddle down that channel to explore who was there or what we might find. We pretty much had the place to ourselves, so we figured why should we spoil it? Granted it was a weekday and most of the schools had already started back, but I have the feeling that this place doesn't see much traffic to begin with.

NY-17 (The Quickway) skirts the north end of the preserve near Wurtsboro and US-209 runs parallel to the river to the west. My guess is most people on The Quickway are too busy wondering what in the hell they are doing on it in the first place and aren't thinking about the wetland in the valley below them. Sullivan County is a relatively forgotten place. It's Drive-By country nowadays. Much of the once majestic Catskill resorts are closed or have been turned into summer camps run by people who either don't have the fiscal means for the upkeep or simply lack the skills to properly use power tools. It doesn't surpise me that many people don't visit the preserve. I too myself am guilty of driving right by the place on more than one occasion, this morning included.


Due to the canine related morning mishaps and the amount of time we lollygagged on the Bashakill, there was no time left that day to head south to the Walkill. That will remain an exploration for another day and I'll undoubtedly return to the Bashakill as well.


For more information visit: http://www.thebashakill.org

Backpacking on the Wolfjaws: Adirondack State Park, NY

Sometime in the early spring of 2009, my buddy Dave, hit me up with the idea of doing some backpacking on the Appalachian Trail. He wanted to do the whole thing in sections, but he wanted to start in Georgia. He propositioned me with the notion of driving 16 hours, hiking for two days, and then driving (almost) another 16 hours back. I’ve done a lot of crazy things, including a marathon drive from Alabama to Pennsylvania once…once. This is precisely why I wasn’t going to go for his plan. Instead, I offered to take him to the Adirondacks. I hadn’t done any serious hiking there in years, and, in my opinion, bagging all 46 peaks over 4000ft is just as lofty as section-hiking the entire AT.

I began planning in earnest. I laid out a few routes and after some careful decision making, taking into account some of my previous Adirondack adventures, my hiatus from serious backpacking for 2-3 years, and the fact that I didn’t want to re-bag a lot of peaks I’ve already notched in my belt, I decided on an itinerary that would take us over 5-6 High Peaks, only one of which (Mt. Marcy) I had done before.

Things didn't go quite as planned. Dave, hadn't backpacked in a while and admitted this en route to New York. The hardest hike he had ever been on was climbing Mt. Tammany in the Delaware Water Gap, a mere 1200 or so feet, and no where near as steep or as rugged as what we were taking on here in the Adirondacks. OK...not a problem, I’ve dealt with novice backpackers before. This, however, would turn out to be only one of the foibles that we were to encounter on this trek into the High Peaks.

We actually did pretty well on Sunday and made it 4.5 miles to our shelter in about two hours in spite of the muddy and sloppy trails. Dave and I had made a stop at one of my favorite gear stores in the northeast, The Mountaineer, in Keene Valley, prior to getting to the trailhead just up the road. There we stocked up on some supplies we couldn’t buy at home and rented the mandatory bear-proof cans we needed for our hike. In spite of my years of experience, and the Leave-No-Trace Instructors’ certification I hold, the NY State Department of Environment and Conservation does not see it fit to allow me (or anyone camping in the Eastern High Peaks Region) to rig up lines and bags to properly secure provisions from critters, no matter how much of an expert one actually is. I’m sure the fat-cat at the State Assembly who conjured up the idea of mandatory use bear cans has never had to pack and haul one of these damned things several miles into the wilderness. To maximize space and pack for best weight distribution, we didn’t even pack our backpacks before leaving. I knew we would only have to re-pack everything once we acquired the cans. After an hour of going through everything and splitting up the gear and food and paying for parking, Dave and I were off.

Dave and I left the trailhead in Keene Valley and made our way along John’s Brook. The trail was fairly level and offered some good photo opportunities. This would have been great had I not decided to leave my good camera in the car. The weather report for the week said “Rain, Clouds, Thunderstorms…”, so I opted to leave my behemoth digital SLR behind. With probable cloud cover and potentially no sweeping vistas to shoot I didn’t see it worth toting the extra weight. (Maybe without the bear can I would have lugged the extra couple pounds.) I had my cell phone camera, and Dave had a point-and-shoot, we were photographically covered. Then for some reason my cell phone didn’t power down correctly and the battery died in a mere 2 hours while desperately searching for a signal in the New York backcountry. I wasn’t even going to take it, but I wanted to have a camera, now I was left with a useless piece of plastic and silicon. This is the same reason I don’t use a GPS, but at least with a GPS a few AA batteries can put you back in business. Not so with a cell phone that uses a micro-USB jack to recharge. (I also neglected to take my hand-crank/solar cell charging unit, a present that I rarely use because I never take my cell phone.) In spite of the superior photographic equipment we lacked, Dave’s point-and-shoot seemed to suffice and we got a few nice snapshots of the brook, the new footbridge, and our campsite.

We stayed at the Wolfjaws lean-to, a three sided shelter common in the ‘Dacks. There was no view or anything especially scenic at the campsite. An outhouse, called a privy here in the North Country, which had obviously been moved several times over the decades served as our human waste receptacle. A rushing stream, still frigid from the spring thaw served as our water source. If it had been a hot day, I might have been tempted to scour for swimming holes, but not today. A recently fallen fir blocked the access to the stream and we were forced to detour among and around the broken boughs in order to fill our water bottles. This would become a common occurrence while we were encamped there.

Monday’s weather was superb! It was our intent to knock off Upper and Lower Wolfjaw peaks, then make for The Great Range and get Armstrong and Gothics before the end of the day. We made it up to the junction of the Lower Wolfjaw/Upper Wolfjaw trail pretty quickly. It was only 0.5 miles to the top of Lower Wolfjaw. I would have preferred to leave our packs at the bottom of Lower Wolfjaw and retrieve them after we bagged the peak, but with my luck a NYSDEC ranger or some Adirondack Mountain Club (ADK) member bestowed with some type of backcountry police power would have spotted the two bags, checked to see that all the food and “smellable” items were secured in the bear cans (which they were not right at this point), and then we would have been issued a ticket or warning. That would have looked great. “Eagle Scout/Leave-No-Trace Instructor/Backcountry Advocate/Outdoor Recreation Department manager cited for wilderness illegalities.”

Getting to the top of Lower Wolfjaw took us an hour! The mud, slick rocks, and scrambling up six-foot rock faces, one after the other, just killed us. We were toting full-packs and my trekking poles were slowing me down. One was bent and I couldn't collapse them down and stash them on my pack in order to free up my hands. Dave wasn’t doing much better. His heavier cotton-based wardrobe and old-school sleeping bag made his pack a bit heavier than it could have been with better gear. Regardless, we got to the top and felt pretty good, but we sucked down a bunch of water. It took us 30 minutes to get back down to the junction and then we started up Upper Wolfjaw.


What came next was the roughest, nastiest trail I've ever hiked in my life. 1.0 miles took us over 1.5 hours. I was expecting some scrambles and handhold use, but I've never before had to take off my pack, throw it up to the next level of trail, and then chimney climb up between two boulders. This was sick! We made it up but were down to a pint of water each. I had planned on us running short before we made camp that night, but I had also planned that we would be running out of water only a mile or so from day’s end. From previous June escapades in the ‘Dacks (coupled with the very rainy spring we had) I fully expected a few perennial streams would have been flowing as well. Faced with at least three more peaks and three more miles we did some quick math and opted to head back down to the shelter we were at the night before.

Coming down wasn't that great either. It was a long, disheartening down-climb back to the shelter. My knee decided it was a perfect time to pop out after slipping on some rocks, and the descent wasn’t much faster than the hike up. Out of water, muddy, and slightly bloody we staggered back into the Wolfjaws lean-to somewhere after 5:00pm. Thankfully no one else moved in, although we would have welcomed some comely French-Canadian ladies, or, in actuality, anyone who was willing to cook our dinner. Instead our only visitor that night was a local Pine Martin. The furry weasel-like creature must have smelled the canned shrimp I added to the evening fare. That made me think if he smelled it, a bear could have as well. So now I’m all hyped up thinking we were going to have “Close Encounters of the Ursine Kind”. I would have taken a picture, but….well, anyway. Sleep came soon after sunset and sometime in the middle of the night it began to rain. We were supposed to be camping under a tent-fly tonight, six miles or so away. Dave pointed out that he was now glad we ran out of water. The weather wasn't great Tuesday. In fact, it downright sucked. It rained all Monday night and didn't let up until 10am on Tuesday. We had read that there were T-storms likely on Tuesday and with the rain and quagmire-esque trail conditions we opted to head out of the woods. In spite of our self-inflicted physical abuse we felt fine after returning to camp on Monday night, but now the legs and back sure felt a lot worse and it was noticeable on the hike out. We checked out John’s Brook Lodge, also known as JBL, and spent some time there talking to the caretaker.

The lodge is nestled three miles or so into the wilderness and is only accessed by foot or pack-animal. The annual resupply missions to JBL are done mostly by ADK volunteers and by helicopter. Consequentially, the nightly fees to stay in this 100+ year old vestige of the glory-days of early Adirondack expeditions are a pretty penny. Lean-tos and tent sites are also available nearby for a slightly lower fee. JBL is worth a stop and given the fact that we were in no rush to get out we took our time reviewing the collection of Adirondack memorabilia in the JBL historical collection, and had a damned tasty brownie as well.

Dave and I rambled back to the parking lot in Keene Valley, stopping only briefly to dodge around a young, nouveau-hippie woman meditating on one of the footbridges and for a quick reconnaissance of some other lean-tos closer to the trailhead. Then we headed up to the Adirondak Loj, (purposefully misspelled by the builder) rented a lean-to, cleaned ourselves up, and headed into Lake Placid for some beer tasting at the Lake Placid Pub and Brewery. We sampled a few of the offered beers and I took a half-gallon bottle (know to beer snobs like myself as a “growler”) of 46ers India Pale Ale back to camp to accompany dinner. Dave opted for a growler of Ubu Ale. I have had LP Brewery beers before and was hoping the High Peaks Hefe-Wiezen was available. It wasn’t...bummer. We headed back to very quiet campground and proceeded to cook up some beans, rice, and chicken. We polished off most of the beer and decided to call it an evening after we ran out of dirty jokes to tell.Now a day ahead of schedule, we headed over to the Adirondack Wild Center in Tupper Lake on Wednesday and checked out the cool stuff there. Two school groups had just beat us there, and we didn’t get to really enjoy the experience. Watching the otters swim around was neat but the school groups there made it a bit crowded, and I constantly felt like I was going to nail some poor pre-kindergartener with my knee. We stayed for about an hour-and-a-half, still not seeing everything there was to see, and we decided to start the trek home.

We stopped in Queensbury and chowed down on a Loft Burger with double bacon, cheese, onions and mushrooms. The Loft Burger restaurant is strategically located on the corner of Routes 9 and 149 just off the Northway and is a frequent stop of mine either on my way to or from Vermont. While my backcountry cookery is excellent, Dave had to admit that the Loft Burger was perhaps the greatest-worst-for-your-arteries thing he had ever eaten. I have to agree.
All in all, it was the first serious backpacking trip I took in 3 years. I was hoping we would have found better water sources or had taken more water bottles, but I didn't beat myself up and surprisingly I was only moving slow due to the terrain and conditions. We didn't bag all the peaks we planned to, but I got two more that I didn't have before. Dave has since forgotten about his original plans to section-hike the AT and now has his sights set on bagging more High Peaks. Two down and 44 more to go for him, I’m only slightly ahead of his count. Thankfully, the mountains aren’t going anywhere.
For Additional Information See:

The Adirondack Mountain Club, Johns Brook Lodge and the Adirondak Loj:
http://www.adk.org/

The Mountaineer: http://www.mountaineer.com/

The Adirondack Wild Center: http://www.wildcenter.org/

The Lake Placid Pub & Brewery: http://www.lakeplacidpubandbrewery.com/

The Loft Drive-In: (518) 793-2296