Tag Archives: Adirondacks

Escape the Urban: Four Days on the Saranacs (Part II)

11 Sep

This is part two of a series on paddling the Saranac Lakes with two of my boys. Part one can be found here.

Unloading at the public put-in on Ampersand Bay at the start of our journey, staring at the recently-rented upside down canoe, I realized there was one key step I had not considered in my planning: how am I going to get this stupid thing off my van?

I had three campsites reserved and pre-registered. I had a map and carefully planned route. I had food and gear neatly stowed in waterproof bags. I had sunscreen, bug juice, marshmallows, a tiny camping stove, tent, sleeping bags, books to read, a camera, rain gear, paddles and vests. What I didn’t have was a way to get the canoe off the van.

The answer, of course, lay in trail magic. Or, perhaps in this case, water magic. A middle-aged kayaker on the trip out. A powerboat mechanic on the way back. Random strangers and a random act of kindness: helping me lift and flip the 75 pound, 19 foot beast on the journey’s extreme bookends.

The four days in between went as well as I could have hoped. Proving that the Adirondacks are closer than you think, we left Buffalo on a sunny Saturday morning, drove to Saranac Lake, rented a canoe at St. Regis, and were on the water before 4 pm. The day was bright and clear, the mountains in stark relief against a brilliant sky, sailboats playing on the water. Powerboats are allowed on both Middle and Lower Saranac Lake, but they are few and far between enough that we spent little time dodging and turning into wakes. We only had a short paddle to our first campsite, a deliberate choice to not push it on the first day in case we were running behind schedule. 

I had practiced paddling with my sons on Ellicott Creek a week before we left, so we skipped any need for an introduction or lessons. Highly adaptable and generally resistant to whining (except about cartoons and Pokemon cards), the boys tend to accept their lot with admirable resolve. Throughout the trip, they paddled when it was time to paddle, hiked when it was time to hike, ate meals in all conditions without complaint about quality or quantity, slept well, and were more amenable to miseries of all types (delays, weather, bugs, bowels) than many adults I know. I was quite proud to see an eight and five year old paddle with an empty belly through driving rain wearing a smile and giggling.

Our first camp was a bulge of cedar-shaded land on the north shore of Lower Saranac. Equipped with an outhouse, picnic table and fire ring, it was far more civilized than I anticipated (note: all campsites on the Saranacs require reservations with NYS’s easy-to-use online system, as well in person registration upon arrival at the ranger station on Rte 3). I hauled the canoe out of the water onto a low sandy beach, pitched the tent, made dinner, started a fire, cooked s’mores, brushed teeth, hung the food bag, hid the bear canister, and crashed in bed by 9:00pm – a ritual I repeated twice more.

I awoke before dawn to thunderstorms. I was surprised. The weather report on my phone said to expect them some time during the day, but I assumed the lightning would come in the heat of the afternoon, leaving us plenty of time to paddle in the morning. I brought up a doppler radar map of the weather front and saw an angry red and orange blob to our north. A well timed thunderous crack confirmed that the pretty magical picture on the small LCD screen was not a mere abstraction, a simple curiosity outside wall and double-planed glass, easily ignored in the safety of our homes. But the storm system, immediate and relevant as it was, seemed north of us and moving quickly to our east, the opposite direction we were heading. With a swipe of my finger I tried to load the weather map to the west, to see what was coming. The sporadic connection jittered and the map failed to load. Well, I thought, how bad can it be? I boiled water for coffee and oatmeal and didn’t worry.

Our destination for the day was a lean-to on the far north end of Weller Pond, itself the northernmost water-accessible point off Middle Saranac Lake. This was as deep into the bush as we would go, as far off the beaten-path as possible on this pond-and-stream system, a camp along a rarely used portage to Upper Saranac Lake. The boondocks of the boondocks.

Despite the overcast uniform grey, we packed our canoe and launched, paddling past assorted rocky islands and into the Saranac River, the connection between the Lower and Middle lakes. The drizzle began as we entered the mouth of the narrow, slow moving waterway. The thunder returned after the first couple turns, the river winding through marshy scrubland that provided little cover. Obviously there were more stormcells off the map that I had failed to see. I don’t mind paddling in rain, but being exposed on the water during a lightning storm was more risk than I was willing to accept with children. Fortunately, I had a place in mind to ride out the worst of the weather.

No photos in the storm - taken the next day when the weather was better

Middle Saranac Lake is three feet higher in elevation than its Lower cousin, a small difference that nonetheless requires an accounting; geography is an unforgiving taskmaster. Nature’s rounding error is overcome at a curious hand-operated lock, staffed by a lucky DEC park ranger who spends the summer opening and closing heavy doors and enjoying solitude in a rustic cabin. I knew the lock was coming, and instead of passing through it during the worst of the lightning, we stopped and bunkered down. A wary, short haired woman, the park ranger took pity on the kids and, seemingly against her normal inclination, let us take shelter on the screened off porch of a storage shed – from there we watched buckets of rain lash the river and electricity dance across the sky.

But we didn’t wait long as I decided to roll the dice. Each storm cell I saw on my phone that morning was small but intense. So as soon as the thunder sounded from the east instead of the west, I poured the kids back into the canoe in the driving rain and got paddling. The gamble worked: the rain let off within the hour, and after a soggy lunch of peanut butter on bagels, we were turning the corner into Weller Pond, a pristine vision that feels more remote than it probably is. Yes, I had no cell phone signal, and a loon allowed us to pull our canoe right along side as he dived for fish. But a quick hike up the 1.5 mile portage from our Weller Pond camp yielded popular Upper Saranac Lake, home of one of the largest resorts in the Adirondacks.

We had the lean-to on the right night. Soon after we returned from our portage hike the rain resumed, not stopping until the next morning. First, a steady drizzle that simply annoyed and harassed my attempts at making dinner. Then a soaking rain that prevented any forays away from the shelter except irregular but necessary pee breaks. Stuck together, we played cards and talked. I told the boys family stories, tales of their grandfathers and great grandfathers, those special legends you save for the right night and the right fire and an inquisitive look in your eight year old’s eye.

Our tent was too large to fit under the lean-to, so I put the kids to bed while dodging drops. They snored happily and I sat under the heavy log covering reading with my head lamp. Finally the fire I had made mid-drizzle succumbed to the relentless dousing, and darkness crept in. Spell broken, I took the hint and went to bed early.

 

The rain only increased all night, lightning and thunder and canopy thrashing wind in the wee ghosting hours of the deep dark. The tent held together and kept the water off, and the kids slept through the worst, so I enjoyed the show alone, looking out over the flash-lit Weller Pond during each too-close strike. The next morning the floor of our campsite was remade: the pine needles and cedar droppings that had littered the ground uniformly before had now run together in rivulets, washed into drifts by the flooding rain.

The next day and a half was a trip back to civilization, a leapfrog back along our previous path. The third day dawned clear but breezy, and the wind only increased as we left Weller Pond behind and paddled onto open but shallow Middle Saranac Lake. The cross-wind gusts provided only annoying harassment as we crossed the northern secluded bay, but upon entering the main body of the lake the gusts became gales and raised three foot swells with whitecaps. Heavy with me in the back end of the canoe, our lifted nose now acted as a sail and the boat turned east in the wind, fortunately generally the right direction. The kids cheered and laughed as the canoe rode up and down, from crest to trough on the living sea.

I, as captain and protector, put every bit of my rafting and kayaking experience to use. I was glad I had taken on bigger swells on the Pacific in Hawaii on an 18 mile trek around the Na Pali cliffs, a quarter of the island of Kaui’i. There I was in a tandem open-top rig, and learned to anticipate and ride the waves emerging behind me. I was glad I learned as a river to guide to control a raft alone. Guests often flip out mid-rapid and stop paddling, just as you need them to dig in to pull you away from strainers and rocks. My boys were enthusiastic but helpless in the face of the surge water. I took advantage of the tailwind and directed our craft across the heart of the lake, seeking a sandy beach on the far south-east corner to eat lunch and swim a bit. I only missed my mark by a hundred yards, not bad from two miles out in the difficult conditions.

After an abbreviated meal (wearing their knit hats with swim trunks to keep warm, the boys had little interest in spending much time in the water) we ventured back out into the wind-swept lake. We were forced to crab into the wind, and I struggled to keep our broadside pointed in the right direction. Forsaking the momentum we had gained, I back-paddled a massive crosswise stroke, a maneuver that in a whitewater raft would send us on a 720 degree spin at least. Nothing happened. The gusts took the nose and suddenly powerless, we drifted into the reeds on the lake’s eastern shore. There was nothing for me to do but get out into the marsh and tow our boat through shallow sandy swamp back to the Saranac River. Finally sheltered by hill and pine, the wind died as if some ancient wind god had flipped a switch.

Under suddenly (though short lived) clearing skies, we passed back through the locks, up the lake, past cliff-studded islands to our final camp site. The rain returned and pushed us back into our tent, where we played yet more Uno and ate dinner. I’m cautious about cooking inside a tent, though, and so I boiled our water outside in the wet while the boys stayed snug in their bags. Fortified with candy bars at every meals, the kids shook off every setback, and a little more rain mattered little to them. The sun broke in time for a sunset, and I made our third helping of s’mores by starting my third fire of the trip, this time using only white birch bark, long pine needles, cedar scraps and wood soaked by two days of rain. Take that, Bear Grylls.

Fog clung to the hill sides on our last morning, mist rising off the warm lake as we paddled the last small stretch to our awaiting van at the Ampersand Bay parking area. Our topic of conversation? My eight year old wants to know if we can do a week long trip next year, instead of only four days. Mission accomplished.

Escape the Urban Book Review: Adirondack Paddler’s Guide

28 Aug

Author’s Note: As you know from my last column, I just spent four days canoeing in the Adirondacks. I did not have the time in this shortened week to do that story justice, so here is another tease that’ll help your own planning.

In the outdoor writing biz, the easiest, hardest, and most frequently asked question are all the same: “where should I go _______?” That blank is filled by all modes of natural immersements: hiking, canoeing, backpacking, camping, whitewater rafting, etc. One could argue that the entire industry of travel and outdoor writing is based on answering that question. I’m honored when someone asks me – not only are they trusting me with their scant time and resources, but they are implying (at least) that I have an authoritative answer. I take the recommendation business seriously.

So if you asked me where you should go on a long distance canoe or kayak trip, I’m likely to refer you to the Adirondacks. Its a safe and popular answer. The ‘Dacks do contain some of the best flatwater in the world, and they are closer to Buffalo than you think. But the truth is that I haven’t provided much practical information you couldn’t get off the simplest Google search. The Adirondacks are a big place. So are the other likely answers to that question: the Minnesota Boundary Waters, the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, Algonquin Provincial Park, the North Forest Canoe Trail. When you ask where to go, you are looking for some specifics. A guide to the choicest spots. A clue to keep you from fumbling around in the (metaphorical and literal) dark.

I seek my own recommendations from own circle of experts: my fellow river guides at Adventure Calls, Tim Reed with local tour provider Adventures in Fitness. But at the end of the day, when its time to make solid plans, I pull out a map and guide book and “talk” to the expert of Adirondack water: Dave Cilley.

Dave did yeoman’s work and a great service to the outdoor community when he recently penned the definitive guide to pond and river hopping in the ‘Dacks. I love pouring over maps and guides anyway, especially in the offseason. But this set is special. Dave’s paddler’s map is the epitome of definitive, and his accompanying guidebook not only provides the play by play of each lake, stream, historical oddity and ecological wonder, but it also recommends trips of various lengths for each section of the park, gives ground truth practical logistical information, and lays out tips and tricks for all levels of paddling experience. The book and map combined provide sufficient resolution to plan nearly every inch of your trip: camping sites, portages, terrain features, currents and wildlife. I am a stickler for detail, and the map granulates every bay, inlet, side creek, lock, dam (man-made and beaver), elevation change and contour line. Dave is a river Yoda, and decades of dipping his oar in every inch of the Adirondacks led to this book.

If it sounds like I’m a bit familiar with Dave, its because he helped me muscle a 19 foot Old Town Penobscot 186 on and off my van this week, bookending my excursion at hopeful start and smelly finish. His company, St. Regis Canoe Outfitters in Saranac Lake, rented me my canoe for my recent four day trip. They’ll also sell you all manner of paddling gear, provide lessons, lead tours, pick you up or drop your off at either end of a one-way journey, and fully equip your multi-day adventure (including tent, sleeping bags, food and everything else) if you have none of your own kit. I only needed the canoe and a couple paddles for the boys, but our story of s’mores and thunderstorms will have to wait for another day.

Escape the Urban: Perilous Packing

21 Aug

I woke up this morning on Lower Saranac Lake, one of many jewels in that blue and green Adirondack sea so vibrant with midsummer color and smell that the senses balk at breathing in the whole ‘scape in one gulp. This section of rivers, lakes and ponds, just west of the High Peaks and an hour drive into the park, contains some of the best flatwater circuitous canoeing and kayaking in the world. There are many ways to trip from pearl to pearl on the string, connecting clear mountain lakes via streams and portages in a nearly endless number of back country combinations. For my first multi-day trip with two boys (aged 8 and 5), I chose a loop with no long-haul carries and an easy abort-mission ejection point if weather or bugs or time away from Mom brought too much misery. I’ll provide the definitive trip report in a future column (though if you are curious and the cell phone towers cooperate, follow me on Twitter (@WNYMediaRepat) to get real time pictures and updates), but our topic today is that less romantic portion of excursion making: packing.

Everyone has their own system, checklists and must haves. My personality type and military training have bestowed upon me a deep and abiding love of the packing list. I have one for each occasion: rafting, consulting, cold weather, etc. But I have never taken a 4 four day canoe trip with two boys. I have no checklist for that. I am lost.

So for this trip I went to my backup plan: go in the basement where I store the camping gear and pull everything off the shelves that appears useful. Sleeping bags and tent and Big Agnes inflatable mattresses. Stove and gas and cooking gear. Paddles and life vests. Backpack and dry bags to store everything in. The basic stuff comes easy.

Then the less obvious. Bear canister to store our food. Is it big enough for three people for four days? I’ll make it work. Mosquito head nets – nothing ruins a trip faster than merciless bugs. Maps and description of the route. Rain gear and collapsible Platypus bottles.

That’s everything that I can think of from my basement, so its time for the highlight of every new expedition: the shopping trip for new gear. This time I splurged on stuff-sack pillows that collapse into a tiny ball (EMS’s “Dreamy Pillow” – I’ll do a gear review of a number of items after this trip). I can deal with heat, cold, hunger, wet and exhaustion, but if I get a bad night’s sleep, I’m miserable all the next day. I learned a long time ago that a “real” pillow, instead of a balled up outer shell or sweatshirt, makes all the difference.

I also let the kid’s pick out their dinners for the trip: dehydrated lasagna, kfajita filling and pad thai. They begged for, and I acquiesced to let them try, the freeze dried ice cream bar. I can only imagine how good that scary cardboard will taste by day three. After finding new rain gear for the kids, a replacement filter for my water purifier and new tarp to go under the tent, I was satisfied I had spent all the money I could justify on one trip. Back home to pack.

 

I laid out all the gear on my office floor. Now the hard part: figuring out what I forgot. Like most trekkers, I always forget something. The truly organized, the obsessed and the childless spend days, weeks, or months crafting packing lists. I would too if I was hiking the AT. But after running to soccer games, the county fair, the library for last minute summer reading list completion and the thousand other tasks required of a father, I had put off the final pack job to the last minute. What I came up with now would have to do.

I have a mental list of things I normally forget: flashlight, bug spray, sunscreen, toothbrush. What I really need is a definite written list of what I normally forget. I don’t have that. I scrambled upstairs and found the usual suspects and stared again at my pile. Something was missing. I asked the Oracle (read: Twitter). It wasn’t much help either. I asked my sons.

“Let’s bring Uno!”

Good catch – something to do around the campfire.

“Marshmallows for S’mores!”

Oh, yeah. Forgot that. Better ask Mom to get those on the way home from work. 

But there was something else. Something more fundamental. Something we could not do without. Something it would be a disaster to forget. Something I should write down for next time.

Have you figured it out yet, from the picture above?

Toilet paper. I threw a roll in the top of my bag. Now it would be a good trip.

Escape the Urban: Part Time Naturalist

20 Feb

The holes in the trees are unmistakable. Deep rectangles, the size of my open hand, beaten from the skin of the tree down into the heartwood. The holes, lined up in a row down the trunk, were raw and fresh; a mess of bark, splinters and shredded wood littered the ground at the base of the tree on a fresh layer of snow. I had seen such evidence of Pileated Woodpeckers before, on previous trips to the Adirondacks, but those holes were old and worn. These were so new I searched the sky for the culprit, but had no luck. I trudged on down the path, snowshoed feet loud in my own ears as I broke through the cold crusted snow. Just before the trail turned round a bend, on a whim I stopped and looking one last time at the pecked over tree, gave a startled shout as I saw the huge bird back on his bug hunting perch. He leaped from the trunk, and with a series of irregular flaps, flew in front of me and over my head, proud red crest stark against the monochrome forest, fat body as big around as my thigh. My first Pileated did not disappoint. 

I spent the last week snowshoeing in the foothill backcountry west of the Adirondacks and south of the St. Lawrence River Valley, sometimes on a path, sometimes climbing an iced and rocky hillock to get a wider view. These softly rolling swells and swamps, glaciated ponds and snow-swept stunted trees, lazily drift and roll north for hundreds of miles until finally spent at Hudson Bay. The joys of spending such a long period of time outside in the winter are many. Observations seem as new and fresh and the last snow fall. The discoveries are dearer, the labor more tiring and thus rewarding. And the wildlife is easily silhouetted against a contrasting pale backdrop, if you know where are looking.

A week in the wild in winter will teach one how much the fallen and packed snow can change in a week. The effects of weather are always more pronounced when you persist outdoors, unsheltered from the elements by an insulated home. But showers and sun in the summer are slight variations compared to the impact of winter weather swings, where the ground underfoot and not just the warmth from above changes rapidly.

On the first day out we endured a typical mid-winter lake effect blast from unfrozen Ontario, over a foot of fresh powder that swept under your coat, into your eyes, and tangled your limbs. I sank thigh deep despite the snowshoes, and made little headway. I felt as though I wasn’t walking through the snow so much as fighting in a bizarre solo wrestling match. Tired and frustrated, I got half as far as I wished, and twice as exhausted in the process.

But from there the snow morphed and grew more tolerable. A warm up softened and compacted the drifts to half their size, and driving rain and sleet deposited a wet top layer. The next day saw a deep freeze plunge to negative four degrees Fahrenheit, turning the previous day’s rain into an icy crust and solidifying the lower snow core. Travel grew much easier, as I sunk only an inch or two with each snowshoe step, making excellent time, as if I didn’t have thirty inch cookie sheets strapped to my feet.

The forest and bogs morphed with the changing weather as well. After the initial dump of snow, the trees were downright sumptuous, heavily laden with white ripe fruit. But the wind and sleet completed an overnight harvest, leaving previously engorged limbs and branches pelted and worn.

The discoveries I most treasure in the snow, however, are animal tracks: wide rabbit feet, raccoon and coyote lines. On day four I spotted not the tracks of a porcupine but the whole beast, downright pudgy for so late in the winter season, waddling across the path in front of me with barely a nod of recognition. After a new snow fall, with the slate wiped clean, the number and frequency of tracks grows day by day. It is a joy to spot them. They are temporary oracles, transient and impermanent. There is no chance they will be fossilized and preserved, as in wet sand or mud. Rather, they won’t even make it to the spring, covered with the evening snow or faded in an afternoon thaw. There are no other tracks like these, this set of unique prints along my route, a pattern never to be repeated. What are they? I place an impression of my wide foot next to them and compare, but I lack the skill to make a definite identification. In the seldom visited backcountry I am transiting, away from roads or popular parks, I am likely the only human who will ever see these particular tracks. If I don’t record them, with a photo or a word or a deliberate memory, they will be anonymously laid and then irrevocably lost. It is a serendipitous gift that carries a certain solemn duty.

The last morning dawned clear and cold, but late February sun can be powerful when given the chance, and soon I was overheated under my downy coat. I made a comical figure, stripped to my shirtsleeves, gauntlet gloves, and gaiters, steam rising from my back in the brilliant blinding sunshine. And there, as if on cue, chickadees and junco’s filled the still air with spring songs, celebrating that I would not need my snowshoes much longer.

Escape the Urban: Northern Adirondacks

22 Aug

Escaping the Urban is a new regular feature exploring the outdoors near Western New York. This is the second in a series of columns on the Adirondacks. 

Photo courtesy adknccrafts.com

Buffalo is hardly stifling in the summer. Even stuck in the most oppressive of the summer heat, our humid August days are moderated by the prevailing lake breezes, and pale in comparison to the sufferings of our southern and downstate neighbors. And yet, an escape to the mountains, with the chilly nip in the morning, warm sunny days built for swimming, and hoodie-sweatshirt nights, calls my name by the dog days each year. One could do far worse than the 300 mile drive to the northern Adirondacks, home of the High Peaks, endless paddling, and funky mountain towns.   

The well heeled escaped the heat of New York City at the turn of the last century by taking the train north to the Adirondacks, building large lodges and cabins called Great Camps, with their own distinctive style of casual and rustic luxury: wide porches (to take in “The Cure“), great fireplaces and sitting rooms, and relaxing chairs that beg for a book and an hour.  

For the same cost as the Best Western in Lake Placid, stay in your own Great Camp built in 1916 along the shore above Lower Stony Creek Pond. 

We comfortably slept four adults and five children at this perfect basecamp for a week of adventures. No, you can’t drink the water, and thus have to bring your own. Yes, you bring your own towels and sheets, and sleep on beds labeled “Patented May 1898.” But you also wake up to this view everyday, have your own swimming dock anchored offshore, and have five kayaks and canoes waiting for you at your own boathouse down the embankment. 

And where those ponds and streams can lead you. Our camp was along the Northern Forest Canoe Trail, a 740 mile water trail connecting Old Forge, New York to Fort Kent, Maine, via Vermont, Quebec, and New Hampshire. A historical route used by Native Americans and European fur traders, it has gained popularity recently as it has been “rediscovered” and promoted by a 10 year old non-profit of the same name. Some day I’m going to paddle it from end to end in one go, a trip of 40 or 50 days. For now, I had to content myself with 4 miles of it, from Raquette Falls to the Indian Carry portage off the northern Stony Creek Pond. What I missed in length I made up for in convenience; there is nothing better than putting your warm cup of coffee down on a sunny morning, walking down a hill, and pushing off your kayak that has been waiting for you on the lake’s edge. 

If the flatwater is too tame for you, raft down the Hudson, a classic northeast white water trip. While the snow melt creates the biggest rapids in the spring, regular dam releases keep the Hudson moving all summer, and its just tame enough that I could bring my seven year old along on his first trip. The Class II-III water was just enough excitement for me, and his perpetual grin proved there was plenty of rush for him. 

There is more to the ‘Dacks, though, than water; its the combination of peak, stream and town that appeals. Broad State Route 3, a legacy of the 1980 Winter Olympics, winds a thin veneer of civilization across the northern landscape. With the steady parade of cabins, restaurants, gas stations, ice cream stands, and snowmobile repair garages along the highway, it is easy to convince yourself that the woods and lakes are just screening more civilization, like the green tube of the NYS Thruway. Sitting on a restaurant deck on Mirror Lake in the town of Lake Placid, drinking some Ubu Ale (oh, its good), the city may not feel quite so far away. But climb up a peak, like Mount Ampersand, and get a view, and you will be reminded how far out you are.  

Whether it was the early rise of the sun or the exuberant birdsong outside my window, one morning I found myself awake before the rest of the cabin. I padded downstairs as quietly as I could, but 94 year old wooden beams creak in morning cold, and I was soon joined by my seven year old son. 

“Can we go take the canoe out, Daddy?” Sounds great. 

The mist was still clinging to the lake water when we pushed off. My son’s oar was two feet too long, but that didn’t stop him from enthusiastically paddling anyway, t-handle above his head. I guided us to the north end of the pond and upstream on the marshy creek that is the inlet. A young white tail buck, a velvety six-point, stood knee-deep on the swampy edge and politely ignored us, chewing waterlilies with his head up. With a couple quiet strokes, I guided the canoe towards the bank, and pulled within a couple yards of the buck. We waited, watched. He sniffed, nodded and we both moved on. 

The creek led to a bridge, and we paddled under, entering the wide northern Stony Creek Pond. We crossed, coming upon a lone island, covered in rock and pine and white birch, with a sad solitary cabin claiming its highest point. My son and I talked about what it would be like to winter in a 200 square foot cabin, on an island in a pond, before the days of paved roads and cell phones, with only a book and your fire to keep you company. We pulled up to a camp site on the northern pond edge, found bear scat and large Pileated Woodpecker holes, and climbed a small rise to look over the lake. Water meets stone, stone meets tree, tree meets sky. 

“How do people get to this campsite,” my son asked me. “There are no roads. Where do you put your car?” 

“You have to paddle. You can’t drive here.” 

My son thought about that for a moment, and then ran down the hill, giggling all the way back to the canoe. 

We pushed off again, back towards the cabin, and with our bellies rumbling, wondered aloud if Uncle Kurt was up and making scrambled eggs. The mist had started to burn off, but the lake was absolutely still, a perfect mirror of the pine forest and sunrise. I looked off to the right, and pointed out a loon, bobbing on the water, already awake and diving for fish in the lake. We’ve heard his call at night, a lonely wail, while we sat around the campfire, cooking and talking. 

“Dad, I like Adirondacks. I don’t know why.” 

I do.