halcyon days

 A post in three parts:

Part One

We leave our beautiful cabin in the Adirondacks. I turn around for one last look and something prompts me to photograph that entryway. Maybe because it displays the name of the cabin: Halcyon.






It's a wonderful name and too fitting for our one week on the lakes and rivers here. Way too fitting.

But why are the skies so brooding? How is it that only now the clouds set in over this ancient mountain range?





We eat breakfast in the car, on the ride to Albany International. Ed's to fly through Atlanta, I'm to catch my Madison connection in Detroit.

One last check of email at the airport.

One last feeling of complete tranquility.

We find out then that Ed's longtime friend and business partner Greg died last night, sailing on Lake Michigan.

It is so unexpected, so terribly tragic that it knocks the wind out of both of us, but of course, especially Ed.

Greg grew the company that arose out of a dream Ed had -- of creating computer operated milling machines that would be accessible (cost wise and size wise) to the hobbyist, the inventor, the innovator. The educator, the developer. With workshops and support services to help you along, so that you can create anything your imagination allows. Metal fittings for a flute, intricate knives, golf clubs. Simple things, complicated gears and machine parts. A milling machine to put in your basement or garage, school classroom, or plant.

Ed the designer, Greg the organizational star with engineering skills to boot. One guy's dream, turned into a team collaboration. But Greg was the one who worked daily to make the company a success. You can now find Tormach milling machines all over the world. Apple, Intel, GE, Amazon. Universities, many dozens of them -- from Harvard, to the University of Nairobi.

Greg shared Ed's passion for sailing as well. Ed says that if you must die, what better way than out on the water. But must it be now? So tragically early?


Part Two

We fly in at different times and the whirligig of events, commitments, lovely commitments, beautiful and pure pull me in right away. My most wonderful nephew is on his last day and night at the farmette and I want it to be a good set of hours for him. And I'm anxious to see Snowdrop!

My nephew and I hurry down to little Snowdrop's music class and this is where I first spot my daughter and granddaughter...






After we sing, dance and shake rattles in the air, we leave the car and walk over to the Capitol Square for Madison's beautiful summer event -- concerts on the square.



cousins


We buy foods and settle in on blankets that my daughter had set down for us and as the music seeps in and the hushed whispers and the clash of plastic forks and splash of wine into plastic cups fills the evening, I sit back and breathe deeply.

I watch Snowdrop and she is at her best, playing first with her little rattles and chewies and then climbing on her mom and finally settling into the safety of that well known shoulder.











Part Three

This morning, the skies are once again cloudy. Occasional drops of rain suggest a wet day ahead. I have only a few minutes for a glance out at my garden.





I'll give it more time later. July is its prize month. I wont ignore my blooms.

We eat breakfast on the porch. It's an early meal. Ed must go off to Tormach and, too, my nephew will have a bus to catch for Chicago's airport. This evening, he'll be in Stockholm again and the farmette will be strangely empty without him here.





I grocery shop of course. Stock up, fill the fridge, think cooking thoughts. No no, not just boiled water into a pouch, eaten on a bed of pine needles! Halcyon, halcyon...


I poke in on Snowdrop whose smile fills the room.





And here's a wonderful thing -- I get to have her at the farmhouse all evening and through the night.

Watching her exploratory roll, and now perfectly supported sit, her play, bounce, and grab is so wonderfully satisfying -- as if she is there to show us how it all begins, how all that energy grows into something deeply creative and beautiful.






We play, she eats... well, I try to convince her that veggies (peas, beans and spinach) rule!






She gives them a wee chance...





And then she relaxes over a bottle of the usual. Such a relief to have something familiar to hold onto.

And so we are back, Ed and I. As my nephew reminded me -- good trips are never pushed aside in the tumult of an especially rocky return. They recede, but you come back to them in future times and you remember and you smile.

the Adirondacks

Part 2

I 

If you wake up in the middle of the night on the shores of Low's Lake, you'll hear it: the plaintive voice of a loon. You'll never forget its strong and trailing voice, coming out of the misty waters of a still lake.





II 

And now comes the low point of the entire Adirondack adventure. The moment of disagreement. 

To understand the momentousness of this, you have to know that Ed and I, being so different in so many ways, never disagree. We each engage in acts the other wouldn't dream of pursuing, but our common path is steady and peaceful.

Camping area number 27, where we overnighted, turns out to be the only place during this entire Second Journey where I am able to pick up a cell signal (admittedly I don't try very often elsewhere). I have enough battery life left to check the weather, which so far, as you can see, has been incredibly generous to us. Sure enough, the promise is of storms. Well, it's a speculative promise: 50% chance, the entire afternoon.

If weather were not an issue, we would pack up (leaving the beautiful number 27) and head out on a side trip -- down Bog River to Bog Lake. Then we would look for a site to pitch the tent closer to the tip of the lake (where we came in and from where we would be leaving the next day). The lake is so empty! Maybe another magical site would present itself to us.

All good ideas for a good weather day. But I do not want to be in a canoe in a storm. If the skies seem okay, I think we should do a quick excursion and come back. In the alternative, skip the excursion and head out now in search of a new site. Ed wants to ignore the whole weather issue.
If the storm comes, we'll wait it out by the shore.
You know there are no landing spots for long stretches of shoreline!
We can pull over and ride it out in the canoe.
That's not safe!
Nina (no "gorgeous" when he thinks I'm being irrational and it affects the direction we take), it's a lot safer than driving a car.
But I'll be scared and it'll ruin it for you!
Do you want to stay here and I'll explore Bog Lake alone?
What if you don't come back? 
I have no answer to that (..very stupid question).


III 

After I'm done shedding tears of indecision, I take a look at the sky and see no sign of trouble.

We eat breakfast -- nice, very nice... 
 





No threat yet and the lake is absolutely still.






I take a deep breath and agree to pack up camp and head out together. (It is our history: when I turn braver than I feel, Ed turns gentler and more willing to accommodate my foibles. And I know I'm nursing an irrational foible.)


IV 

The lake crossing is memorable: not a single ripple, not a wave or a shudder. Just us and the loons.
 





V 

Let me introduce you to the names of the lakes and rivers around us: Otter, Iron, Horseshoe. Beaver Brook, Big Moose Lake. Marian Lake. I'm sure when they named a lake "Marian," it's because someone had a sweet spot for a Marian in his life. And Otter Pond had otters. 

And Bog Lake has the bog.
 





The floating bog is easy to pass. A few shallow spots, a few murky moments, but all doable.

Thereafter, we pick up the slow moving river, which meanders between bogs, lilies, pickerel weed, and fallen timbers.

Suddenly the population of black flies explodes! The dragon flies, our most precious friends and warriors are outnumbered. They try, they really do. But the flies rule vast stretches of the river.

After a half hour of constant battle, we turn back. However pretty Bog Lake may be, it's a messy paddle to it. 

Alright. We're almost out. Pass the floating bog and we'll be on Low's Lake again.








(with dragon fly friend)


And now I relax, because I know we can beat whatever storms come our way. My biggest fear throughout has been not the currents, winds, flies, sites, navigational quagmires, but storms. My sailor guy has no fear of them, whereas every encounter with lightening and thunder in my life, when exposed and outdoors, has left me shaking.

I know now we'll pitch the tent before a storm will find us.

It is a huge relief.


VI 

Now is the time to see if the prize of all prizes (in my opinion) - the lovely tip of an island at the head of the lake, with pine needle beds and water every which way, and a beautiful beach to the side -- is unoccupied.







It is! (If you're ever on Low's Lake, it's number 18 -- a stunning place indeed!)

We pull out the canoe.

Among the pines, there is a beautiful fallen log: lean against it, sit on it, contemplate the entire lake before you. Like all the wilderness camping places, it's immaculate. Leave no trace behind. No one has even carved his or her initials on the naked log. When you sit on it, you are part of something greater than just yourself.

From tears of sorrow to tears of joy. Isn't it always like that?




(lunch)


VII 

It's early afternoon when I set up camp (I let Ed rest a bit -- he does all our cooking). We have nowhere else to go, no exploring, no climbing to do.
 





We read, I write, we swim.






What're you doing, gorgeous?
I'm running along the island beach ready to plunge into Low's Lake! -- I shout back.






VIII 

The wind picks up, a few puffs of clouds roll in. We meet a couple of passing paddlers from Mystic. We compare notes on sites, on the water conditions, on the wonderful roaming ranger woman. We feel like oldtimers.

And the afternoon waves bang against the shore and if there is peace to be had ever in a life that sometimes gets too complicated, it is here, on a log, facing Low's Lake in the Adirondacks.



IX 

Our last dinner in the wilderness. I'm half tempted to build a fire: someone has neatly stacked kindling to the side of a carefully cleaned out fire ring. But like Ed, I prefer the simplicity of doing none of it.

He lights his ancient stove and boils water. We eat our pouch dinners in the fading light of the sun. 
 





And the storm? It rumbled past, just south of us. Ed wanted to watch a display of lightening on the lake, but all we got were beautiful clouds, playing hide and seek with the sun.






And a farewell sunset.






X 

In the morning, we shower to the music of loons. A long, clean note, a quiver. Ed says -- people come here for this sound. Maybe we did too?
 





A last breakfast. We're down to Cliff bars. And coffee for me.






We pack, efficiently, rhythmically.






And we pull out and make our way toward the river, we feel a gentle wind on our backs. The current, too, is with us this time.



(loon family)


It took us four hours to paddle down the river to the tip of the lake heading out. It takes us just three to paddle back.

But in that time, everything above us changes. At first, a solitary cloud moves in from the west. Halfway down the river, the sky becomes overcast.

And the rain comes down. Initially it's gentle. Just a tease. We do the portage, past the dam, without fuss, experts now, each in our roles of carrier and mule.












But as we paddle into our final hour, the shower turns into a steady, relentless rain.

How funny, really! I had so trusted the sunny forecast, that I pushed my rain jacket to the bottom of the bag. I had to dig for it now. Ed has his on as well.

And yet, despite this miserable (from one perspective) weather, we encounter paddlers heading out toward the lake: a group of three canoes, heavily loaded with coolers, as if for a never-ending feast. Then a couple: she is in a bathing suits and life vest. He's in a t-shirt (and vest). They greet us cheerfully. Looking at us in our jackets, he shouts out -- someone's afraid of getting wet!

I have to laugh. Everything downward of my jacket is soaking.
No, not afraid! 

 And so the Second Journey ends.
 






XI 

If I were a New Age type, or inclined to meditation, I'd write about such things as inner peace, finding one's center, touching eternity. The week of camping in the Adirondacks grew each day -- from just an adventure, to something that became really grand and extraordinarily beautiful. Calming any tumult that I brought along with me.

But I'm not inclined in that direction and so I'll leave that thought, to dangle here for your own contemplation. 


XII 

We overnight at the Dartbrook Lodge, in Keene, New York. Just east of Lake Placid.

It's not really a lodge. There are a few Adirondack cabins, neatly tucked into a landscape of wild flowers.

Our is just gorgeous!

Outside: 
 





Inside:






And all around:






Normally, I'd settle in and enjoy the detail of this rustic but so very comfortable little gem. But I can't. I gave my soul to the outdoors this week and I'm not ready to part with it all.

Ed naps, I go for a hike. To these falls and back (toward center left, there is a guy fishing on the rocks -- to give you some perspective on their size).






Not more than a couple of hours, there and back. The falls are nice, very nice, but they are only an excuse. The goal is to connect all these strands of thought and move forward. And I do.

We eat dinner at the village cafe. It has a menu that's remarkably similar to the one at the Long Lake place we ate at our first night in the Adirondacks. Again we split a roasted chicken. With salads. I missed my salads!






Ed falls asleep soon after, but I find myself already gliding into routines from home. A late night, an Ocean post and only then -- the comfort of a bed. A big bed, a crispy linnened bed.

I am acutely aware of the fact that there is no breeze blowing through our night. No stealthy movement of a curious animal. No music of a loon out on a lake.

the Adirondacks

The Second Journey 

(twice as long as the first, therefore in two parts, each consisting of, as before, twelve short chapters)

Part 1 

I 

After our sprint down Long Lake and the Raquette River (see previous post), we reenter civilization.

First stop: the Raquette River Outfitters. We're changing canoes. The Royalex will be cheaper and sturdier than the Kevlar we'd been using. We can pull the Royalex up on sand and not fret every time we go over a branch or near a rock. [On the downside, there will be short-ish portages and the Royalex is twice as heavy!]

And I want to retrieve my water bottle (left in the jeep that took us to the put in)! Sharing Ed's has been tough. He drinks like a whale so we have to purify with iodine. The river water has gunk in it and it just doesn't look refreshing, made worse by white bits of pill floating inside. With my own bottle, I make do with what we boil in the morning and at night.

Ann (co-owner of the Outfitters and an extraordinarily helpful soul) is surprised to see us. We were to do the First Journey in three to four days and we did it in two. Why the push? Why the impressive but somewhat manic paddle? 

I suppose to escape the mosquitoes. On the river, our choices are -- paddle, or sit in a zipped up tent. We hoped for fewer bugs by the wind battered lakes.

I write my (previous) post at the Well Dressed Food Cafe -- a newcomer to the village of Tupper Lake. It's an extremely friendly and likable spot and my smoothie is like a nosedive into the luxury of yogurt and fresh fruit.


II 

For the Second Journey, we take the canoe to the put in point at Bog River, just above the damn. It's late. The Ocean update took time; Ed, as always, never hurried me or complained, but it is 3:21 when we push off and, too, it's Saturday. Finding a place to pitch a tent will be a challenge.

Let's concentrate on the beauty of the river at the point that we join it.


 



III 

Ah, but let's not limit the challenges to just finding a place to pitch a tent!

For the first time, we are paddling upstream and against a strong breeze.

Navigation is also a major challenge. On the Raquette River, we watched for the current: where it went, we went, ignoring the side inlets, streams and stillwaters. That's not so easy now and within thirty minutes I get us lost in a boggy, murky nothing.

Tick tock, tick tock...

You have the map: tell me the compass direction -- Ed says, with the patience that is his hallmark. Don't say left or right. West? How many degrees? 
Maybe 15 degrees to the south of west...
Call it what it is: 255 degrees. What's the magnetic adjustment? 

I'm learning!

Too, there are the black flies. They are not to be deterred. Every time we come near a bog, we pick up a few and they follow us until Ed swats them dead.

And of course, our portages are now tougher. Heavy canoe! Ed carries the boat, I become mule extraordinaire and carry all five dry bags on my shoulders.

And we have to push the canoe through a moving bog. Who knew bogs were mobile?!





But we're okay!


IV 

I get nervous about finding a place to stay. It's getting late. There are so few spots to pitch a tent here! What if? What if?
 

We pass a canoist retreating from the trip we're just starting.
Hey! I shout...
Great weather! -- he shouts back.
I see you're leaving. Where were you camping?
Over on 18 -- by the lake. (The numbering system is exquisite: it tells you where you can pull ashore and it assists you with navigation when you're more lost than you care to admit.) But someone took it already.
I groan.
We passed number 12 though. On the river. It's empty and gorgeous!
My heart soars.

An hour later we find it: it is empty and it is gorgeous!





Ed mutters: a beautiful Saturday in the middle of July and no one is here.

I have to admit that it surprises me as well how underused these wilderness areas are. Every city person would do well (it seems to me) to sooth a frazzled soul here. Sure, it's nearly five hours from NYC, but I know many a Wisconsinite or Minnesotan who would regularly drive that distance for an escape up north.

Where is everyone?

Ed gets the burner ready for our dinner, I sit back and take it all in. The flies are gone, the mosquitoes -- almost nonexistent. I thought we got lucky yesterday with our camping. But this!

Yes, this.












VI 


Waking up in this most beautiful spot along the Upper Bog River is like waking in a sanctuary. The Douglas Firs (I don't think I'm wrong with that label) tower above us. The carpet of dry needles is soft. On three sides we are handed water views. Misty morning water views.
 





This moment is, of course, what we look for when we face the wilderness.






The breeze is lively and refreshing. We "shower" again with our all purpose little pot. The water is cool, but the feeling of warmth after is sublime.

(A selfie moment!)






We eat breakfast outside, of course. It feels like this is our highest point, in a whole string of high notes -- as if we've reached our experiential summit.











VII 

Nothing grand comes freely. Really nothing.

As we paddle out, promptly at 9, I keep an eye on the sky. These are to be our days of storms, but I don't see it. We glide under a hazy blue sky.

But we surely have the wind in our face. And the current. We're working hard to move forward.

And it gets tougher as we paddle out onto Low's Lake. The breeze gains in stature. I would now call it a wind and it whips the water around us, so that the crossing feels more like a ride in a water park than a gentle paddle.


VIII 

The goal is to find a place to pitch our tent -- for one night, maybe two, if the weather deteriorates. Yes, there are clearings that stand empty, but after a night in a temple, I'm not going to be satisfied with a buggy, stuffy, murky landing.

And yet, there is this: when I look up and down the long lake, it's nearly always empty. It's because these wilderness areas aren't accessible by power boats and right now, I do believe America has a love affair with speed on water -- big boats, small boats, but with power! Surely they outnumber canoes and kayaks 1000 to 1! (In Poland, those numbers would be reversed.)  Surely we'll find some place to hunker down!

Ah, but we're up against pros. People here paddle smart. They have maps. They know to avoid sites near bogs, dark woodsy spaces, still waters and murky shores. 

The lake is long and wide. Ann had identified two spots as places of great camping beauty, but both are taken.

We paddle to the end of the lake. We portage over a short isthmus. We hit bogs. Black flies buzz around our canoe. We enter a still bay. There are spaces here for camping. I hate them all.

We've gone too far.  Everything at this end feels remote. I want the wind from the lake, not this graveyard of fallen timbers!

Are we able to pull off another bit of magic?

Nope.


IX 

At least -- not on our own. As we retreat back up this most beautiful lake..
  





... we run into her:







She's a forest ranger and she paddles the remote lakes and rivers to check on sites and the people who come through here. She tells us -- I just came from landing number 27. It's empty and it's lovely.






And it is.

No, it offers no pillars to the heavens above, but it has a lovely clearing, it's gusty with the lakeside breezes and is virtually bug free and best of all -- it has a strip of sandy beach that gently slopes into the lake.

We throw down our gear and plunge into the water.

And then Ed dives under and loses his glasses in the deeper part of the lake.

I sweep my feet across the bottom, barely touching the murky sand and come across something thin. Could be glasses. No, a branch.

Try again.

Luck, sheer luck directs my feet to where they are. [To Ed's credit, he does travel with a spare set, but you can bet anything that he'd be diving there still, if he knew one rested on the bottom of the lake.]


X 

The weather stays good. Our tent is up. We're refreshed. Both Ann and the ranger suggested a hike up the mountain that juts out behind us. The ranger, a woman nearly our age, is blunt about it: you'll do some weed whacking and rock climbing to get up there, but it's worth it. Take some food or a couple of drinks up with you. It's fantastic!

I smile at the idea of Ed and I, scaling cliffs, aperitifs in hand!

We keep it light. Just water and a camera.


XI 

You have to paddle to a boggy, murky, buggy spot to find your way up the mountain. But we wouldn't have done the climb if it wasn't for the fact that a couple from Albany was there before us. They made all the mistakes and took all the wrong turns before us, so that by the time we showed up, they spared us a repeat of their errors.

So, a wonderful climb, right?

Wrong. As we reach the rocky upper section, I'm thinking: isn't it ironic that I just sent emails to daughters (curiously, our campsite is the only place along the entire lake where I am able to pick up cell service) that the dangers are all behind me? Wouldn't it be so terribly pitiful for them to then receive a call with the message that "your mom is sprawled at the bottom of the cliffs overlooking Low's Lake?"

There is no trail, though some good hearted soul tied a piece of orange plastic to trees and if you followed these, you'll at least be in a good position to scale the boulders.

Wait a minute: scale the boulders, with drop offs where one slip puts you in touch with the grim reaper? 

That's so not me.

But Ed (in his $9.99 Walmart water shoes, no less) finds the possible landing spots along the cliffs and slowly, patiently, he guides me to them.

And yes, the view is grand.

 






See the thin strip of light brown to the right? That's a floating bog. It's tomorrow's challenge. Among others. Because believe it or not, the best and worst are yet to come.

Summit selfie:





The retreat is easier. We get down on our asses (Ed's terminology) and slowly slide our way to safety.


XII 

Dinner today is superb. Hungry as anything, Ed devours his pouch of dated pasta (but dated by only five years, as opposed to the beef stroganoff, which had an expiration date of 2003) and I do great justice to my pouch of mushroom risotto. What I leave behind, he finishes in the middle of the night. When I ask -- how was it?  He tells me -- better when it was warm.
 






Part 2, to be continued, tomorrow.