Thursday 8.21
I am tired. Today was a really good day though. Woke up early-ish again, before 8:00, and set out immediately for Cascade with backpacks full of granola bars, peanut butter crackers, a loaf of bread and 3 liters of water. Signed into the trailhead at 8:45, and we were on our way. Down into the little cascade valley and then UP! This hike was not too steep, in fact it was pretty pleasant and moderate the whole way up. And Meghan sets a good pace. But what it was; Muddy! Very muddy. The whole trail was a reminder of the wet summer we’ve been having and we slogged through lots of muck. I tried my best not to sink my sneakers 3 inches deep into the liquid Adirondacks, but I still wound up with dirty shoes, and a few close calls with a sprained ankle for my rock-hopping efforts.
The hike is 2.1 miles to the intersection with the trail to Porter, and it took us a little under 2 hours, which I blame entirely on having to navigate so many soggy patches. From there we took the ¾ mile jaunt over to the top of Porter Mtn. (4080 ft). The trail descends a bit, through what was essentially a running stream bed, before climbing back up to the summit, which, although tree-lined still had some really wonderful views of the high peaks. And they were so much closer than either of our previous viewpoints. And Porter being of little import to the day hiker with Cascade on their mind, we were even able to spend a couple minutes completely alone at the top.
After about a half hour we headed back over to Cascade. Shortly after the intersection you get out to the bare rock and start heading toward what you think is the summit. And then you get there. And then you climb another little ways to get to the actual summit (4098 ft). It’s totally bare. The views are really wonderful, although I felt after having been on Porter, that the view of the high peaks was somewhat similar, except that Porter was now in the way. Nonetheless, Cascade gives you the crisp panorama that you do not get at the top of Porter. And again, there is just no real reason to make an attempt at describing the view. I can show you pictures. But you really need to go up yourself.
Summit fever is real. But then we started descending and I started wishing we’d had that weird Whiteface elevator to bring us down. But now, achy legs and all, I’m starting to think about what I want to hike next, and I’ll deal with that descent when the time comes. All told today’s trip was somewhere between 5.5 and 6 hours, roughly 2200 feet of climbing and about 6.5 miles round trip and I’m so glad that we did it. I’m ready to do it again, even if my knees are currently pitching a fit and my toes are aching from almost face-planting on the way down.
I’d also like to mention the exquisite pleasure that is the post-hike shower. Which is equally as great as the post-camping shower. Words cannot describe. We stopped for a six pack on the way back, and had a post shower beer, which is also nice. Went into Saranac Lake village after sitting around a bit, walked more (I don’t know why) and then had wood-fired pizza at a little family joint which Meghan informed me did not exist when she lived up here. It was really good. And though I’d sorta planned on going to a Piano/Cello recital in town here tonight, Meghan wasn’t really up for it, and I’m probably not either. So we’re here at the motel for our last night, reading and writing outside, because it’s finally warm enough, and preparing to watch the sunset over Lake Flower. A well spent day means an early bed time.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Day, the Second
Wednesday 8.20
Day two. Even more exciting than the first. Woke up earlier (7:45) and stopped by the office after a shower for a muffin and a coffee for Meg. Then sat out on the lawn and watched one of the little Quebecois boys unhook and subsequently wander all over the grounds clutching the adolescent, oxygen-starved northern pike that he had apparently just caught off the dock. I think he even took it in the office. After this we took a paddle about halfway down Lake Flower. Then it was time to officially start the day.
We set off for Whiteface around 10am, headed the backway through Bloomingdale to get there. It looms large in front of you once you get in the vicinity, and I was a little worried to see the top rimmed in clouds much as Algonquin and Marcy had been yesterday. When we got to the gatehouse the sign said 40 miles visibility at the top, with 5-15mph winds and a temperature of a balmy 49 degrees.
It’s a special pleasure, being able to drive almost all the way to the top of the 5th highest peak in the Adirondacks. The Whiteface Memorial Highway was some sort of New Deal project in the ‘30s, and one, I learned from its pamphlet, which would be impossible to pull of these days. And it’s probably good that this is the only one because it was a bit of a strange feeling taking an elevator down off the summit with a bunch of prospective AARP members playing grab-ass. But I still think it’s a nice thing to have available to the public. Whiteface is quite separated from the rest of the high peaks region and its isolation made it an excellent candidate for that sort of project. After all, the elderly and the lazy deserve to revel in nature’s wonders as much as the seasoned outdoorsman.
The road climbs 2300 feet over five miles and deposits you in a parking lot right at the edge mountain, 250 or so feet below the summit. I guess the view probably isn’t worth trying to talk about, but it was spectacular, and it ramped up my excitement for Cascade even further. The high peaks are there again, but the difference between Whiteface and yesterday’s trip up Baker is about 2,300 feet in point of view. Even so, the view in the distance might be similar, but on a smaller mountain you just don’t have that seemingly never-ending slope of trees sliding away from you as you stand at the top. Whiteface also has some impressive slides, and of course, it’s always fun to look down onto a ski park in the summertime. We climbed up the last 250 feet over some very treacherous but user-friendly, railing-protected rock to the actual summit (cold and windy, alternating with downright pleasant), took all the tourist pictures, and then headed back down.
After being at such a considerable height it really felt a bit disappointing to be back down closer to sea level, and no longer with a bird’s eye view of the world. I kept looking up from route 86 at the gondola and the weather station and wishing I could go back up and just hang out. But there were more things to do. Lunch at an A&W was a nice treat of Americana. The next stop was an unplanned visit to the Wilmington Flume on the Ausable, which was a quick rock-scramble, photo-op, on our way to the High Falls Gorge, just down the road on the west branch of the Ausable. It was an attractive set of waterfalls through an impressive gorge. But I’ve been to a few places now where the trail head is a gift-shop and the hike costs 10 bucks and it always has a tendency to deflate the impact of the nature’s wonders for me. Still, nice, and I learned that it takes 100 years of lichen growth to create one inch of soil on bare rock. Chew on that!
On to the Village of Lake Placid. A Tourist’s delight. We parked and walked. Two book stores right next to each other is always nice. The inevitable Ben & Jerry’s and Starbucks. A variety of Junk shops and souvenir sellers. An Adirondack crafts and housewares store with 3 floors of “rustic” décor, gifts and attire. And on their directory describing each floor, they included the “rustic” qualifier for each one. Finally, having run out of faux log furniture and stuffed bears to look at we grabbed a lemonade and sat down in a park on the shore of Mirror Lake. A band was setting up in the gazebo with a poorly set-up drum kit and a keyboard. A clean cut guy (loafers, tucked in polo, Keanu shades) was onstage with a 12-string strapped on. I spurted a bit of a diatribe against the instrument to Meghan as he strummed a bunch of open chords, the usual 12 String fodder (G, Cadd9, D). A youngish drummer came up and joined, they were bad together. A lady came up and plugged in yet another 12 string. There were multiple miniature stand-mounted monitors. And 3 microphones clustered together on one side of the stage. “This is a Christian act,” I said. And then the guy began soundchecking his keyboard and vocal mike. “Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Lord, blah blah, etc, etc…” Bam! It was a proud moment for my powers of speculation, and yet another sad moment in the history of music. We left, quickly. Dinner at the Lake Placid Brewery. Beer sampler. Cheeseburgers. Slow Service. Stopped at the Price Chopper to stock up for our hike tomorrow, and then grabbed an ice-cream cone next door to the motel. And now here I am, ready for bed.
Day two. Even more exciting than the first. Woke up earlier (7:45) and stopped by the office after a shower for a muffin and a coffee for Meg. Then sat out on the lawn and watched one of the little Quebecois boys unhook and subsequently wander all over the grounds clutching the adolescent, oxygen-starved northern pike that he had apparently just caught off the dock. I think he even took it in the office. After this we took a paddle about halfway down Lake Flower. Then it was time to officially start the day.
We set off for Whiteface around 10am, headed the backway through Bloomingdale to get there. It looms large in front of you once you get in the vicinity, and I was a little worried to see the top rimmed in clouds much as Algonquin and Marcy had been yesterday. When we got to the gatehouse the sign said 40 miles visibility at the top, with 5-15mph winds and a temperature of a balmy 49 degrees.
It’s a special pleasure, being able to drive almost all the way to the top of the 5th highest peak in the Adirondacks. The Whiteface Memorial Highway was some sort of New Deal project in the ‘30s, and one, I learned from its pamphlet, which would be impossible to pull of these days. And it’s probably good that this is the only one because it was a bit of a strange feeling taking an elevator down off the summit with a bunch of prospective AARP members playing grab-ass. But I still think it’s a nice thing to have available to the public. Whiteface is quite separated from the rest of the high peaks region and its isolation made it an excellent candidate for that sort of project. After all, the elderly and the lazy deserve to revel in nature’s wonders as much as the seasoned outdoorsman.
The road climbs 2300 feet over five miles and deposits you in a parking lot right at the edge mountain, 250 or so feet below the summit. I guess the view probably isn’t worth trying to talk about, but it was spectacular, and it ramped up my excitement for Cascade even further. The high peaks are there again, but the difference between Whiteface and yesterday’s trip up Baker is about 2,300 feet in point of view. Even so, the view in the distance might be similar, but on a smaller mountain you just don’t have that seemingly never-ending slope of trees sliding away from you as you stand at the top. Whiteface also has some impressive slides, and of course, it’s always fun to look down onto a ski park in the summertime. We climbed up the last 250 feet over some very treacherous but user-friendly, railing-protected rock to the actual summit (cold and windy, alternating with downright pleasant), took all the tourist pictures, and then headed back down.
After being at such a considerable height it really felt a bit disappointing to be back down closer to sea level, and no longer with a bird’s eye view of the world. I kept looking up from route 86 at the gondola and the weather station and wishing I could go back up and just hang out. But there were more things to do. Lunch at an A&W was a nice treat of Americana. The next stop was an unplanned visit to the Wilmington Flume on the Ausable, which was a quick rock-scramble, photo-op, on our way to the High Falls Gorge, just down the road on the west branch of the Ausable. It was an attractive set of waterfalls through an impressive gorge. But I’ve been to a few places now where the trail head is a gift-shop and the hike costs 10 bucks and it always has a tendency to deflate the impact of the nature’s wonders for me. Still, nice, and I learned that it takes 100 years of lichen growth to create one inch of soil on bare rock. Chew on that!
On to the Village of Lake Placid. A Tourist’s delight. We parked and walked. Two book stores right next to each other is always nice. The inevitable Ben & Jerry’s and Starbucks. A variety of Junk shops and souvenir sellers. An Adirondack crafts and housewares store with 3 floors of “rustic” décor, gifts and attire. And on their directory describing each floor, they included the “rustic” qualifier for each one. Finally, having run out of faux log furniture and stuffed bears to look at we grabbed a lemonade and sat down in a park on the shore of Mirror Lake. A band was setting up in the gazebo with a poorly set-up drum kit and a keyboard. A clean cut guy (loafers, tucked in polo, Keanu shades) was onstage with a 12-string strapped on. I spurted a bit of a diatribe against the instrument to Meghan as he strummed a bunch of open chords, the usual 12 String fodder (G, Cadd9, D). A youngish drummer came up and joined, they were bad together. A lady came up and plugged in yet another 12 string. There were multiple miniature stand-mounted monitors. And 3 microphones clustered together on one side of the stage. “This is a Christian act,” I said. And then the guy began soundchecking his keyboard and vocal mike. “Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Lord, blah blah, etc, etc…” Bam! It was a proud moment for my powers of speculation, and yet another sad moment in the history of music. We left, quickly. Dinner at the Lake Placid Brewery. Beer sampler. Cheeseburgers. Slow Service. Stopped at the Price Chopper to stock up for our hike tomorrow, and then grabbed an ice-cream cone next door to the motel. And now here I am, ready for bed.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Travel Writer?
So. I'm going to write a travelogue of my vacation this week. Here goes nothing...
Tuesday 8.19
Woken up by Meghan in robe and toweled hair. “It’s too early” I say. Well actually it was almost 9 am. Hit the road around 10 or 10:30, Meghan at the wheel. She knew I would want to gawk, and I did. Once we got on route 73 I was like a child riding in a cart at the grocery store. Ooh, Ahhh; I want this, I want that. And I would consume these mountains like a box of animal crackers if it were possible. Giant seems to be the first really big thing you see, and it lives up to its name, isolated as it is from the rest of the high peaks. And we passed Cascade, which we have planned for Thursday, our first high peak, and I’m uncontrollably excited about it.
After a driving tour of all Meghan’s old stomping (teaching) grounds, we pulled into the motel a bit after 1:00, checked in, unloaded and then took a walk up to the deli to get lunch. “Italian Mix” of turkey, ham and salami. Oh well. They had good chips. A cool breezy lunch, it’s only been around 60 degrees up here today, and a bit windy off of Lake Flower, but not totally unpleasant.
After lunch we set off for Mt. Baker, practically right in town, a short .9 mile hike up 900 feet to the top (2452 ft). The trail proved to be full of families, obviously taking advantage of its ease of use. Encountered at least a handful of grandparents on the trip, as well as the usual French-Canadians and some nice dogs. The trail was rather poorly marked, but due to the heavy use and relatively thin growth it’s pretty easy to find your way to the top. There is a bit of a flat stretch after the initial climb, followed by some more substantial climbing in the last 1/3 of the hike and the views occur about 50 feet below the actual summit on a rocky ridge. And they were good. The whole high peaks region stretches out in front of you from east to west. Giant cuts a significant profile and the tops of Algonquin and Marcy were just barely frosted with clouds. Through my binoculars I watched the clouds burn off Algonquin’s summit and then sit just above. It looked like you could put a step-ladder on the summit and climb right back into them. And the view of the Saranac Chain as well as the village was beautiful as well. While the high peaks present a tangible, imposing and relatively close barrier, to the west and southwest the park seems to stretch endlessly away.
The hike was quite short, half an hour up, 45 minutes at the top and half an hour down. After an aborted stop for beer at the Grand Union on the way back (poor selection, I think I might need some bourbon), we’ve been relaxing at the motel. Meghan is reading, I’m listening to Charles Ives as I write and watching Jack, the motel’s dog, get a bath out on the lawn. Regarding the motel, its nice and simple. The beds have really nice quilts, I’m assuming made with love by somebody’s grandmother, or family friend. And the toilet has a note about country plumbing and not flushing anything you didn’t eat, but the thing is a turbo-flush nonetheless. Anyway, out to dinner and wandering around town tonight.
Tuesday 8.19
Woken up by Meghan in robe and toweled hair. “It’s too early” I say. Well actually it was almost 9 am. Hit the road around 10 or 10:30, Meghan at the wheel. She knew I would want to gawk, and I did. Once we got on route 73 I was like a child riding in a cart at the grocery store. Ooh, Ahhh; I want this, I want that. And I would consume these mountains like a box of animal crackers if it were possible. Giant seems to be the first really big thing you see, and it lives up to its name, isolated as it is from the rest of the high peaks. And we passed Cascade, which we have planned for Thursday, our first high peak, and I’m uncontrollably excited about it.
After a driving tour of all Meghan’s old stomping (teaching) grounds, we pulled into the motel a bit after 1:00, checked in, unloaded and then took a walk up to the deli to get lunch. “Italian Mix” of turkey, ham and salami. Oh well. They had good chips. A cool breezy lunch, it’s only been around 60 degrees up here today, and a bit windy off of Lake Flower, but not totally unpleasant.
After lunch we set off for Mt. Baker, practically right in town, a short .9 mile hike up 900 feet to the top (2452 ft). The trail proved to be full of families, obviously taking advantage of its ease of use. Encountered at least a handful of grandparents on the trip, as well as the usual French-Canadians and some nice dogs. The trail was rather poorly marked, but due to the heavy use and relatively thin growth it’s pretty easy to find your way to the top. There is a bit of a flat stretch after the initial climb, followed by some more substantial climbing in the last 1/3 of the hike and the views occur about 50 feet below the actual summit on a rocky ridge. And they were good. The whole high peaks region stretches out in front of you from east to west. Giant cuts a significant profile and the tops of Algonquin and Marcy were just barely frosted with clouds. Through my binoculars I watched the clouds burn off Algonquin’s summit and then sit just above. It looked like you could put a step-ladder on the summit and climb right back into them. And the view of the Saranac Chain as well as the village was beautiful as well. While the high peaks present a tangible, imposing and relatively close barrier, to the west and southwest the park seems to stretch endlessly away.
The hike was quite short, half an hour up, 45 minutes at the top and half an hour down. After an aborted stop for beer at the Grand Union on the way back (poor selection, I think I might need some bourbon), we’ve been relaxing at the motel. Meghan is reading, I’m listening to Charles Ives as I write and watching Jack, the motel’s dog, get a bath out on the lawn. Regarding the motel, its nice and simple. The beds have really nice quilts, I’m assuming made with love by somebody’s grandmother, or family friend. And the toilet has a note about country plumbing and not flushing anything you didn’t eat, but the thing is a turbo-flush nonetheless. Anyway, out to dinner and wandering around town tonight.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Crisis Averted
The past few days I had a bit of a psychological crisis. Tuesday night I went to see Wilco at Tanglewood. I really enjoy their albums and their overall aesthetic. It was my first time seeing them live and at one of my favorite places on a beautiful summer night. A recipe for success, but the show left me underwhelmed. What the hell? They played a lot of their songs that I like, and they played them well. They wore nudie suits. But for some reason I just felt kinda blank about the whole thing. There is definitely a list of possible reasons. I had a disengaged companion (she doesn't like them) and I couldn't really see what the band was doing so I had no visual cues. Most importantly, they didn't stray much from what the recorded versions sound like. And the more I think about it the more I suppose I have to chalk my disappointment up to this factor. I expect some sort of deviation and unpredictability in live performance. I didn't expect Wilco to stretch anything out like Phish or the Dead, but I was not expecting the performance to so closely match the album sonically, energetically and in musical content.
Notwithstanding my love of acts like the Dead, this impulse toward variation in live performance is not something that seems inherent to other artists whom I have enjoyed in a live setting. The last show that I really enjoyed and became absorbed in was the Avett Brothers. And their show did not take their songs to extraordinary lengths. But, there was a ramped up energy that crackled through their set and particularly informed their vocals. And I felt connected to them as performers in a way that I hadn't when previously listening to their records. And now I listen to them in a new light. Sharon Jones was a similar experience with me. And when I've seen Ray Lamontagne there is a bit of play in his vocal articulation, arrangement and mood. I didn't experience any of these things at the Wilco show, and so I remained disconnected.
So this has been dragging on me for the past few days. I found myself wondering whether I'd really enjoyed any concert I'd been to (I certainly have!), and wrestled with an irrational feeling that I couldn't emotionally connect with music as a performer or even a as listener. How could I go see a band that I like, under such good circumstances, and not enjoy it? And if I wasn't feeling anything when I was listening, or playing, why was I doing it anyway? But on the way home I had a moment to remind me the silliness of the whole internal dialog.
"Resurrection Fern" by Iron & Wine. Driving in twilight and here is this song I've listened to many times. From a record I got last fall and played regularly through the winter. And as Sam Beam sang "the black bear claw, that took her dog" I got hit with a slap of emotional recall that took me totally by surprise. It was that pleasant feeling of unwinding melancholy that I often feel driving home on a cold winter evening. This in the middle of August. But it was there, and it was visceral and physical, I could feel my knees tingling. I wanted it to be December or February, and cloudy, with leafless trees, a dusting of snow and curlicues of smoke coming from a chimney. And it was all precipitated by a song.
So I guess that my crisis was pointless. I don't know why the conditions around that listening aroused such a sensation, and the equally fitting conditions of the concert did not. But I know that I can feel a deeply emotional connection with music, and also that I can't assume that it will happen when I expect it. And that's probably what makes it so powerful when it does.
Notwithstanding my love of acts like the Dead, this impulse toward variation in live performance is not something that seems inherent to other artists whom I have enjoyed in a live setting. The last show that I really enjoyed and became absorbed in was the Avett Brothers. And their show did not take their songs to extraordinary lengths. But, there was a ramped up energy that crackled through their set and particularly informed their vocals. And I felt connected to them as performers in a way that I hadn't when previously listening to their records. And now I listen to them in a new light. Sharon Jones was a similar experience with me. And when I've seen Ray Lamontagne there is a bit of play in his vocal articulation, arrangement and mood. I didn't experience any of these things at the Wilco show, and so I remained disconnected.
So this has been dragging on me for the past few days. I found myself wondering whether I'd really enjoyed any concert I'd been to (I certainly have!), and wrestled with an irrational feeling that I couldn't emotionally connect with music as a performer or even a as listener. How could I go see a band that I like, under such good circumstances, and not enjoy it? And if I wasn't feeling anything when I was listening, or playing, why was I doing it anyway? But on the way home I had a moment to remind me the silliness of the whole internal dialog.
"Resurrection Fern" by Iron & Wine. Driving in twilight and here is this song I've listened to many times. From a record I got last fall and played regularly through the winter. And as Sam Beam sang "the black bear claw, that took her dog" I got hit with a slap of emotional recall that took me totally by surprise. It was that pleasant feeling of unwinding melancholy that I often feel driving home on a cold winter evening. This in the middle of August. But it was there, and it was visceral and physical, I could feel my knees tingling. I wanted it to be December or February, and cloudy, with leafless trees, a dusting of snow and curlicues of smoke coming from a chimney. And it was all precipitated by a song.
So I guess that my crisis was pointless. I don't know why the conditions around that listening aroused such a sensation, and the equally fitting conditions of the concert did not. But I know that I can feel a deeply emotional connection with music, and also that I can't assume that it will happen when I expect it. And that's probably what makes it so powerful when it does.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)