The Mountains I Call, In Part, My Home

When I was a younger man, beginning sometime around the age of twelve or so, I was a very outdoorsy person. All i wanted to do was hunt, fish, trap… anything that I could do outdoors. I spent endless hours wandering the creeks and hillsides that surrounded my home. There wasn’t a square foot that I wasn’t at least remotely familiar with. I would spend an equal amount of time reading books and magazines such as Fur-Fish-Game. Not only do I still remember buying my first issue of FFG at the old Top’s Friendly Market on Lake Street in Elmira, but I still have it. 

It was in the pages of that magazine that I was introduced to modern outdoorsmen such as Bob Gilsvik, Tom Miranda, and Hal Sullivan to name a few. Perhaps more importantly, the magazine introduced me to old-time trappers, the last true mountain men, and the region they had their exploits, the Adirondack Mountains. 

As a young teen reading about the adventures of men like E.J. Dailey and his trapping partner, Dick Wood, the Adirondack Mountains seemed like some sort of wild, mystical place a thousand miles away. Reading the stories transported me to a time that, though less than a hundred years before, may as well have been in the eighteen hundreds. I could almost feel the arctic cold as they snowshoed through the wilderness, smell the bed made of boughs from the balsam fir and taste the greasy bear meat or beaver tail that kept their bellies full through the seemingly endless winters. I would sometimes dream about being there, in those fabled mountains, and hoped that someday I would get to see them. 

That opportunity would come less than a decade later when, in the early nineties, our assistant Scoutmaster, Dan Cleveland Sr., organized a trip to hike New York State’s highest peak, Mount Marcy, which has an elevation of 5,344 feet. ( That’s over a mile, straight up, if you’re wondering. )

By that time in our young lives we considered ourselves to be rather proficient in the outdoors, having been on long hikes and camping in all weather. However, Marcy pushed us, testing our abilities and determination, even throwing a sudden downpour at us, until finally we summited her peak. Buffeted by strong winds and poor visibility, Marcy lived up to the name given to her by the Native American people, Tahawus, which translates to “Cloud Splitter.”

On the plus side, the high winds dried us and our gear rather quickly. After a while and a few group pictures, we started down the other side. It was then that the skies cleared and we got to see the majesty of the wilderness, which went on for miles – further than the eye could see. 

It was then that I fell in love with the Adirondack Mountains.  

That love for the Adirondacks encompasses the entire six million acres, but the area that is truly special to me is known as The High Peaks. It’s there that Marcy and the other forty five of New York’s highest peaks are found. Even before arriving there, just seeing the sign that reads, “Entering the Adirondack Park” elicits a sigh and a feeling of… I don’t know how to describe it. Relief? Belonging? A connection of some kind and whatever it is, it feels more pronounced the further into the Adirondacks we go. When we finally arrive at places like Keene Valley, Wilmington, Jay and even the touristy yet still enjoyable Lake Placid, it feels like I’ve returned home for some reason. The mountains, timeless and silent sentinels, are old friends to me and as such, I bid them a silent greeting. 

And saying goodbye becomes seemingly more difficult with each visit, so much that in 2018 I seriously wanted to move there. Of course I came to realize that what I was in love with is an idealized version of the area. Being there one week out of the year isn’t like trying to make a living year round in a place where a lot of people work two or more jobs to get by. If that weren’t enough to keep me away, there’s the other seasons – the cold winters with ass-deep snow, followed by “mud season” in spring with blackflies providing the encore. Those bloodthirsty little bitches alone are enough to keep me right here in the southern part of the state. 

Over the years and many visits, returning home has become a process akin to a deep sea diver surfacing slowly to avoid decompression sickness, aka “the bends.” We drive up the fast way, which is mostly interstate highway. Then we come home “the back way” which is more two lane roads taking us through Saranac Lake, down through Tupper Lake, Long Lake, Inlet and usually stopping to stretch our legs in Old Forge. ( Ya gotta stop in at Old Forge Hardware after all. If they don’t have it, you don’t need it. ) 

The trip southward gradually feels less like being in a magical place and more like being in boring ass New York State. It’s an easier transition to normal life, and, tired of being on the road, I want to be home, the sooner the better. 

Thankfully, the Adirondacks isn’t just a place, it’s a state of mind, and entering our home, there’s no room for doubt that we’ve embraced that. Parts of our home, particularly the library, are Adirondack themed. The internet allows me to keep up with what’s going on there year round and I can revisit the region’s rich history through books I’ve collected over time.

I still miss my friends.

I know it won’t be long until I see them again though.

Because “home is where the heart is,” as the old saying goes, and I decided a long time ago a piece of my own heart is there in those mountains. So to paraphrase Michelle Bartlett, owner of “Life in the ADK” store in Old Forge, I’m not from the Adirondacks, but I’ll get there as often as I can. 

Okay, enough of me going on about my favorite place, it’s your turn. Tell me about a place, other than your home, that’s near and dear to your heart!