Category Archives: Adirondacks

Is My Enchiridion Indulgentiarum Account Balanced?

[Purgatory. Credit: Shown Above]

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

~~Patrick Egan Fantastical Essays v. 1 (2024)

In Saranac Lake, New York, on a warm and humid day in 2017, an elderly woman crossed Church Street safely because of something Sister John James said to me in 1957. This was no small feat because the tourist traffic was thick and heavy that day. The potential for disaster was present at every intersection. But I was behind the wheel of my Honda CRV and I had the words of the gentle nun in my ears, for the last sixty years.

She was safe. I was happy. And I scratched off about 10,000 years of my time in Purgatory (give or take a century or two).

You need to be aware of the backstory for all this to make any sense at all.

I was raised a Roman Catholic. Growing up in Owego, New York, and being Catholic, I attended St. Patrick’s School. During those formative years, I learned the basics of the Vatican’s teachings, which included the concept of eternity. Well, that whole idea of something going on forever and ever, without end, was a hard pill for this little guy to swallow. But swallow it I did. And that’s where the problems started.

There are three places I needed to concern myself with. Heaven. Hell. Purgatory. (I won’t bring up Limbo here. Too touchy).

Heaven–Unattainable.

Hell–Too Scary.

Purgatory–Negotiable.

Forever! Never ending! Too much for a ten-year-old’s brain to appreciate. I mean, I did understand what never-ending meant–to a point. I need to mention that the full realization of what death meant was another of those hard-to-swallow pills. Furthermore, I remember sitting in the last pew of St. Patrick’s Church one afternoon thinking about the fact that I had no choice but to walk the inevitable path to…what? Sunny meadows? Gardens? Heaven? But, wait. I could only go to heaven if I died without sin. Early on, I realized that everyone had a stained soul. It’s common knowledge that only a very few people lived on earth without sin. The Virgin Mary, Jesus and Derek Jeter and perhaps Marjorie Taylor Greene were the only ones that came to mind. I could never go to heaven with a stained soul. And there’s the dilemma. Where would I go? The Church had the answer, and it was Pope Urban II, in 1095, who proclaimed, I could go directly to the right hand of God if I took part in a Crusade. That’s called a Plenary Indulgence. In other words, a wet eraser on a dirty chalkboard. Clean slate.

Crusades are hard to come by these days. They still exist, in many forms, but riding off to Jerusalem on a large horse, with a cross painted on my shield, was not an option in 1957. Perhaps the KKK? Or any people bent on destroying another people because of a religion? Maybe. But, in the end, not my thing.

I had to find another means to save my immortal soul, and I found it in the back pages of my Little Missal. I remember leafing through my prayer book and finding short and not so short prayers that would grant me a Partial Indulgence. A short paragraph might wipe clean fifty days. A longer meditation might earn me a year off (for good behavior). Small change, I thought. I’ll never get anywhere this way.

What was I trying to escape from? A cursory survey of Dante (The Divine Comedy) was enough to raise the tiny hairs on my forearm. If this is Purgatory, what the hell was Hell going to be like?

[Purgatory. Source: Google Search.]

The above illustration looks interesting, at first. Naked women? I can deal with that. But upon closer scrutiny–the objects growing out the foreheads of the beasts gave a whole new meaning to the term horny. I got the point. This wasn’t Studio 54. Or Fort Lauderdale in April. Or Vegas on any given weekend. This was unsettling. I needed a way out. Maybe I could make a hefty donation to the restoration bill of St. So and So’s Church in Iowa. Wait! An indulgence for money? Unthinkable. Besides, that was taken care of during the Reformation. Too late again.

What was a poor, more-or-less-innocent kid from Owego to do?

There I was, driving into Saranac Lake on that warm day in 2017. I turned right on Church Street. An elderly woman was waiting to cross. The traffic was heavy. I saw her, she seemed to be in a hurry. She took a step. An SUV the size of Long Island was approaching. I’m not saying she was about to purchase the ranch, but I couldn’t take any chances. So I slowed and waved at her. Go on, Miss, I said to myself. She did, and I continued on to Radio Shack to purchase an indoor/outdoor thermometer (its AA’s were to last about nine years, but that’s another blog).

Here’s my reasoning: A good deed will earn me a Purgatory Point. How many years or centuries would be erased? I have no idea. But it had to be done without me thinking about what was in it for me. That’s hard to do when you’re driving among the tourists. To get the thought from polluting my mind, I began singing, loudly, Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow by Fleetwood Mac. It worked.

Or did it?

I have no way of knowing until I take my last breath. Will the Voice say: Good job with old Beatrice, Patrick, you can skip Purgatory? Or will I hear: Nice try?

Only time will tell.

[One final look at Purgatory. Source: Google Search.]

Uneasy Walks

“Sometimes the fear won’t go away, so you’ll have to do it afraid.”

~~Anon

[Image from Ghosts. Myths. Folklore. Legends. Facebook Group]

The information regarding the image above is from a subgroup (All That’s Interesting) of the FB group mentioned in the credits. Confused? Let’s move forward.

This is about the Dark Watchers–and a few other matters.

It’s a story that is set in the Big Sur, California area. But I suspect that it’s a tale common to every mountainous region. Perhaps the White Mountains in New Hampshire has their own version. Or the Adirondack Mountains of New York State. I’ve hiked in many of these locations (except Big Sur) and, alas, I cannot say that I encountered the Dark Watchers.

Over several centuries, the people who inhabit this particular part of California have had terrifying experiences with the Dark Watchers. Ten feet tall, with hats and brooms, they appear and then vanish. I admit I love stories like this. I’m not so much into the Bigfoot Thing but Urban Legends pertaining to wilderness areas have long been an interest of mine.

I did have a very unsettling experience in the Adirondack mountains. It was the 1970’s and I was on my second attempt to hike the Northville-Lake Placid Trail. Solo. I can’t stress enough that the solo aspect of the trip brought me into conflict with a number of issues. I would be alone, something I abhor. I would be in the deep dark forest. And I would have to spend the night on my own, stirring up my loneliness and my fear of the dark. I can make the story very brief. I was leaving a lean-to after a lunch break. As I continued along the trail I had a very distinct feeling of being watched and followed. The anxiety and fear escalated until I was actually running along the path to where a public campsite was located. I arrived, out of breath and sweating. I caught a ride into the nearby town. I never forgot the fear.

I have read that a logical explanation for this phenomenon is called Pareiodolia. Simply put, the brain provides a familiar image that seems very real when put against an unfamiliar background. That’s Occams Razor; The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.

Which brings me to a disclosure of sorts. I will tell you up front that I am a huge fan of strange things. I especially love ghost stories. This does not mean that I necessarily believe in ghosts, I just love reading about them. At heart I am a Dana Scully. I look for proof. Something that can be tested over and over. I understand that many things are faith-based. That’s okay, as long as the believers allow me the freedom to disbelieve. The Church and the State are supposed to be separate. But, that separation is slowly being blurred by the Supreme Court and the Far Right.

Having said all that, my wife and I are having a wonderful time watching all the X-Files on Hulu. Remember: The Truth is Out There.

[Image credit: Google Search]

Yesterday, Two Loves Walked Out Of My Door

One of my loves walked out of my building and out of my life. It was a lovely late morning. I was handed $50.00. We parted with only a few words. Then, around 4:00 pm, a second love departed. I was left hold $150.00. Cash. Unmarked bills.

I know what your thinking, but it’s far worse than that. These ‘loves’ were not flesh and blood and mesh stockings. They were dreams and hopes I held for a long time…in my heart. One dream dating back almost sixty years.

Okay, I’ll end this agony for you (assuming you’re still reading this).

It all started when we left our Adirondack home this past October. We were moving into a one bedroom apartment in the City. We had to cull, cull and then after we had cheese and crackers, cull once again. I donated, sold or gave away about 50% of my cherished library. That’s okay, in a way, there was no way I was going to get through all those books anyway.

So, consider the challenge: Trying to fit years of accumulated objects into a small apartment. It was clear to me from the start that more had to go.

Yesterday, I took a reluctant step to cutting another boatload free and give something to the outside world.

The first to go, was my kayak paddle. I bought it in 2012 when we purchased kayaks to paddle around Rainbow Lake. I spent many hours, untold hours, alone or with Mariam or my son, Brian exploring the tiny bays and crannies of the large lake. Mariam and I and Brian would pass cheese, a beer, crackers or some wine while we held the boats together and drifted under dark blue skies with patchy cumulus clouds.

The halcyon days of my middle years.

[Lightweight. Functional. I never named them. Some things that you love, don’t need names. Photo is mine.}

I took a monetary loss on the paddle. But I consider it even considering the hours I held them and cut through the waves.

The item that walked in the afternoon was something that had a much longer history than this paddle. It was an Osprey Internal Backpack. I bought it around 2015. I had plans to hike the Northville Lake Placid Trail. Solo. I had a hammock, a sleeping bag, foam pad and light-weight stove…all on my list or in my possession.

There’s some history here.

I first attempted this trail (152 miles +/-) across the Adirondacks, in the summer of 1965. It was the summer before I went away to college. My father and I were going to do the whole thing in two weeks. The only glitch was that we each carried about fifty pounds (far too much for such a hike). We made it thirteen miles before we decided to bailout. We failed.

I tried to do it again sometime in the late 1970’s. Solo this time. Again, I had packed too much. I decided to walk out the same place where my dad and I had done, years before.

[The decision to end the hike on this trip involved some very strange occurrences. A bad feeling in my heart…and soul. Something evil, I felt was following me. I was running with a full pack when I reached the road where I would go into Wells, NY. Horrific and furious thunderstorms drove me to seek shelter on the porch of an empty cottage. It was a terrifying experience for me. I never wrote about it and It still has me thinking about what it was that was ‘after’ me that day. There’s really more to the story, I have to admit. And that part harkens back to the trip with my father. Another story. Another time. But, nearly as frightening.]

I wasn’t using my Osprey pack in those days. I had an original Kelty pack.(then considered to be the Porsche of backpacks). That pack was given to my son several decades ago.

[The Osprey. I took a major financial hit on this. Photo is mine.]

So many dreams.

Someone said to me recently: “We all have to give up our dreams, don’t we?”

I’m wondering.

“Why?” I do not want to go gently into that good night.

Dear Greg

[Greg (R) and myself on some forgotten peak in the Keene Valley Region of the Adirondacks. NY. Date: 1970’s. Photo is mine.]

It’s coming up on a year now since you left me on the trail. You needed to climb one more mountain…at the time, I didn’t want another summit, but you had other thoughts.

“One more,” you said.

“Okay, but I need a rest. I like this little spot. There’s a brook over there where I can drink the cool, clear ‘whiskey’ of the Highlands. You go on, buddy. I’ll catch up to you later. I won’t be that long,” I said.

I waited. I repacked my rucksack and set off to follow you, but a late afternoon fog rolled in making my progress difficult. I went back to the place where we parted.

You never came back. Why? I know now the why, but I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that you never said: “See you later, pal.”

Maybe you knew something about the path ahead that I didn’t.

~ ~ ~

I have a few things to tell you. Several years ago you and your beloved Patti took a trip to the land of your ancestors, Italy. Well, finally, Mariam and I are here. At the moment we are ensconced in Venice. It’s a glorious morning. We’ll be heading to St. Mark’s Piazza soon. I heard the 8:00 am bells toll a short time ago. Pigeons fly about outside our window.

You may be interested in knowing this: Several months ago, Mariam and I visited your grave at St. Patrick’s Cemetery. Patti has done a superb job at choosing a beautiful stone for you. We left three flowers there. One for you, one for Patti and one from Mariam and myself. And it was the kind of day you would have loved. A fresh spring breeze of cool valley air blew across the fields and through the cemetery. Thankfully for us the snow was gone. Not something you’d like, since you always claimed you loved snow…the more the better.

Your beloved Yankees are in last place right now, but you probably already know that.

~ ~ ~

I would have loved taking you to Ireland where my father’s side of the family originated from. I could have shown you some rather unique pubs. But it can’t happen now.

Patti tells me that your favorite place in Italy was Capri. So I guess that’s the best that can be hoped for. I’m not a very religious guy but it gives me a certain comfort to think (dream) that someday you will meet me at a taverna in Capri for a cold Birra Moretti or two.

Then we will fly like the angels we are to Dublin and tap two pints of Guinness together (to our health). Then we’ll cross the ‘hapenny’ bridge and do it again.

Then we will fly like the angels we are to an undiscovered place with undiscovered trails and unclimbed peaks and we will watch the next several zillion sunsets, telling each other things true and untrue.

Just like we used to do…back in the day.

Does it take a ‘man’ to tell another man how much he is loved? You’ve been many things to me, Greg, over the years. A friend seems too thin a word to use here. I’m not alone in saying that I miss you very much. I wish we could sit and talk…just talk…once again.

Just like we used to do…back in the day.

I’m kind of lost without you…

Wherever you are, I remain,

your best friend, Pat

My 600th Blog: Lat. 24 N./Long. 81 W.

[Ernest Hemingway’s typewriter. Located at the Hemingway House Museum, Key West, Florida. Photo is mine.]

Today is only one day in all the days that will ever be.

~~Ernest Hemingway

I am sitting in the air-conditioned Monroe Country Public Library (Key West Branch). It’s quiet, cool and has a WiFi that takes no prisoners. I chose this place to celebrate the posting of my 600th blog. (Confused? See Title.)

So I posted my first real blog on July 18, 2012. It was an excerpt from my first published novel Standing Stone (2012). I was totally unsure as to whether I had the energy and ability to write real content. In truth, only a year before I had very little idea what a “blog” was. I’m still learning. If my math is correct, that’s close to eleven years ago. I was sixty-four years old. When I’m sixty-four, I probably thought at the time, where will I be in eleven years from now? It wouldn’t be telling lies if I said that in my most dazzling dreams, I’d still be pounding on the keys of my laptop (actually, today I’m using my iPad) and trying hard to amuse and inform and entertain. Time will tell if I’ve succeeded.

What follows is a short list of the various places and topics I’ve written about in the years after 2012. They are scatter-shot…in no particular order. Just a quick look back:

I’ve told you stories of Adirondack Trolls, my frustration with snow, ice and sub-zero weather, thermometers that never run a battery down. You’ve heard of the joys and hardships of living in Big Bad New York City. I’ve reposted a true story of my father’s youth, “Coal for Christmas” every December (does that throw my count of posts off??).

I shared my joys of visiting my daughter, Erin and her husband and my only grandchild, Elias from Orting, WA. You’ve read numerous complaints about my bad back and the health issues I’ve had (including my diagnosis of leukemia).

I wrote of my love for the desert and our wandering in Death Valley and the Mojave. Numerous tales were written from England, Ireland, Portugal and Paris. I told you how I celebrated several birthdays in recent year (i.e., when I turned sixty-eight, Mariam and I walked sixty-eight steps along the nave of Wells Cathedral and paused to kiss).

Sadly, I wrote too many posts of sad farewells of my family…and my very best friend of over sixty years, Greg Stella who passed in July, 2022. Rereading those posts still make me cry.

I’ve concocted outrageously silly stories of the demise of or moral failure of our favorite cartoon characters like Popeye, Dennis the Menace and Mr. Peanut.

I’ve shared ghost stories and posted ghost photographs (leaving you to be the judge of the real and the fanciful).

I wrote numerous recollections of my childhood sweetheart, my family home in Owego and my time-warping walks down Front Street in my aforementioned home town.

I described how, on a beautiful autumn afternoon (or was it in the spring?) of helping a cemetery caretaker dig a grave for a woman I never met.

There are many posts that told you of my love of the poetry of Bob Dylan. I even wrote a pre-death eulogy for him.

I’ve tried to celebrate my love for my wife, my children and my grandson. I told you how sad I got in Bruges, Belgium, Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris and along a footpath in England.

I have played with different writing styles like noir and meta fiction. I’ve written short short stories.

And I did it all for you, my readers. I never wrote anything cruel, hateful or boastful. I was honest with you. I respect those of you who took a few moments out of your busy lives to read my efforts. Scrolling this page, I see that there are too many “I’s” and not enough “you”. I apologize.

I will close this rambling post with a photo and a microscopic story:

[The famous Key West Kapok Tree. Photo is mine. Taken by Mariam Voutsis.]

Legends about about the Kapok (native to Indonesia) Tree. One belief: The Devil entrapped a unwary carpenter inside the tree because he had the temerity to carve out rooms in the ginormous trunk. Another: The Tree is said to grow into the heavens (it is known to grow up to ten feet a year).

The Tree has many uses. It is soft so artists use the wood for carvings. It is used for dugout canoes and…caskets.

Good-bye for now. The beach beckons.

Be kind and never let anyone to be lonely or forgotten or be invisible.

To Chris: A Long Overdue Eulogy

[Taku Towers. Juneau Icefield, Alaska. Unknown Photographer.]

My older brother, Chris, would make slight cuts in an apple from our backyard in Owego, NY. This would allow the apple to shatter into bits of apple-shrapnel. No Surface-to-Surface missile would hit with such velocity, because he would mount the apple on the sharpened end of a sturdy stick. I would know. I was often the target during one of the Egan boys infamous “Apple Fights”.

But that’s another story for another time.

I can’t begin to enumerate the ways that Chris has influenced me. The photo above was one that either Chris or I could have taken. He was responsible for getting me a position on the Juneau Icefield Research Program in 1964. During those summer months on the glaciers Chris and I (and a few others) would camp in a remote region of the Gilkey Glacier, where we were confronted by an Alaskan Brown Bear. It was not a comfortable feeling to see a bear with a chain-link fence between us.

At the end of the season, several of us made a two-day hike off the Taku (or was it the adjacent Norris Glacier?). After a night bivouacing on a rocky ridge, I woke up inside a water-soaked sleeping bag. We had yet another to camp on the outwash plain at the terminus of the glacier. My bag was useless. So I slept with Chris inside his mummy bag. That’s what brothers do. I feel he saved my life that night.

I returned the favor when he and I got ‘turned around’ in the Adirondack forest. I found a way to locate our camp.

We spent our younger years family camping in the Adirondacks. Most often it was Golden Beach or Eighth Lake. Later, Chris found a booklet with the title: Trails to Marcy. The late ’60’s and into the early ’70’s were spent hiking in the High Peaks near Lake Placid. His back began to go bad. We took a few years off. Then, in 1980 or thereabouts, he discovered the St. Regis Wilderness Canoe Area. I joined him on many trips to Long Pond. He in the stern of his Guide Boat and I at the other end would silently row our way along the shoreline, exploring the bays and adjacent ponds.

1994 was our last trip to Long Pond. I would watch him sitting on his foam pad and staring into the campfire. He would live another year. Chris passed away on May 31, 1995 (…my birthday).

By my calculations, today would have been his 84th birthday. So, here’s to you, brother…

[L-R Chris, Denny, Danial and myself. Photo is mine. Date is unclear.]

[The first of four photos of me and my brothers. We recreated the poses three more times. Photo is mine]

[Lean-to camping in the early 1960’s. L-R My father, Greg Stella, Peter Gillette, Chris. Photo is mine.]

[Plaque at Heart Lake, Adirondac Loj. Photo is mine.]

I could write 500 pages and more about the adventures we had, but this one page will have to do for now.

This the best place to end this post. The Plaque inscription says it all.

I miss all my family. But Chris shared a dry sleeping bag with his little brother once. Happy Birthday, Chris.

Lost in a World of Cardboard

box noun A container.

–American Heritage Dictionary

[Our future Livingroom. Photo is mine.]

Call it propriety. Call it embarrassment. Whatever you wish to call it, I’m not going to reveal, through iPhone photos the extent of the cardboard that has found a place in our apartment. We used Westside Movers (the very same company that moved us away from the City in 2011) because the estimate was reasonable and they work fast. And the movers will pack anything that isn’t Epoxied to the floor. Don’t put a Sharpie down and turn away because it will disappear and end up six hours away and it will be weeks to uncover. If it ever surfaces again in this familiar universe. Yesterday I was unpacking something, at least I thought there was something, bound in the volumes of newsprint. I tore and ripped savagely with extreme prejudice only to find a scented votive candle, maybe an inch tall, in the palm of my dusty hand. Finding the TV was not a big problem: it surfaced on Day One. Great! The remotes were packed in another box. They were found on Day Five.

But I digress.

We are now officially relocated in New York City after nearly eleven years in the Adirondack Mountains of Northern New York State. You’ve read my posts over the years about our experiences in the Lake Placid region. If you read the blogs closely you would have detected an arc in my narratives. It goes something like this:

~~Finding a Real Estate Agent

~~Elation

~~Reality

~~Fear

~~Loneliness

~~Depression

~~Finding a Real Estate Agent

But, make no mistakes. We enjoyed our time in the woods. But how many times can I shovel the never-ending snow?

We’ve enjoyed the company of awesome neighbors and we already miss them. We’ve shared many dinners and fireside chats on cool evenings. But, all good things must come to an end…and we came to a point that new adventures in Manhattan was something we wanted very much.

So, visit me often on WordPress and please click ‘like’ at the end of each blog. Pay your love forward, I work hard on these posts.

[Manhattan Sunset. Photo is mine.]

{Note: If you want my mailing address please ask me through Messenger.}

A Young Man’s Backpack

“To travel, to experience and learn: that is to live.”

–Tenzing Norgay

[The Kelty Pack. Photo is mine.]

Stuff has to go. Lots of stuff has to go. When you relocate from a 3-bedroom lakeside house to a 1-bedroom apartment on Riverside Drive in New York, you soon realize how easy it was to gather stuff. And now, much of the stuff has to go.

Over the last few months, I’ve given away books that are precious to me, books I have had on my shelves for decades. These were important books that I must now live without. A great deal of other stuff has walked out of our door. Lots of furniture, clothes, kayaks, a piano, two telescopes and several posters to mention only a few. I hope the new owners of these objects will treat them with care…and love them as I did.

One item (that I had lost track of) surfaced in the attic. It was a packframe. But it was more than that, really.

When I first began hiking in the Adirondacks, back in the dark ages of the late 1950’s, I used an Army surplus packframe. It was wooden and probably issued during the Korean War. I used it for years. I hated it. I may as well have been carrying my gear in my hands. The frame hurt my back and made enjoyable hiking adventures much less so.

What to do? I was offered a summer job with the U. S. Geological Survey to be a field assistant on the Juneau Icefield in Alaska. The wooden frame was never going to cut the mustard as they say. So, I began saving my nickels and saving my dimes. I was going to have happier times. Soon I was able to purchase a Kelty Pack. I gazed at it. It wasn’t much to look at. It was crumply and stained. I hiked for several days in Alaska carrying at least sixty pounds. It squeaked and creaked every time I hefted it onto my back.

A little backstory:

It was the early days of the hiking craze (that is still with us). Not much really good equipment was available to the average backpacker. These days, one would have to mortgage the farm to afford the best stuff. Walmart sells very serviceable goods for the hiker. However, if you happen to be an Everest or El Capitan Big Wall Climber, then be nice to your wife because you will be needing a lot of $$$ to afford the latest technology.

There were better packs than the Kelty, but not many. It’s not the Ferrari of packs, but it was miles ahead of the rest.

It is my hope that, whomever ends up with my Kelty will treat it with respect and love. I also hope that they have as many adventures that I did with it. I can only hope.

One afternoon in the future:

I happened to feel the need for a beer. I know it was late, nearly time for the “Time Gentleman” bell. As I pushed open the screen door to the Red Dog Saloon I brushed against the person leaving. I stopped to apologize. It was my old friend, Kelty. He looked liked he had seen better times.

“It’s you,” I said.

“Yeah, and it’s you,” said Kelty.

“How have you been? It’s been quite a few years.”

“I’m fine. Not that you really care.”

“Whatever do you mean?” I asked with trepidation.

“You left me for a newer model. How can I ever trust you again?”

“But…”

“No buts here bud. We’re through.”

“Let me buy you a drink, pal,” I said with little hope.

“No thanks. I’ve got places to go. People to meet.”

Kelty moved out into the street.

“Don’t bother looking for me. Don’t ruin my life. I’m being carried around by someone who has a much better back than you, my ex-friend.”

“Is it over between us?” I asked.

“I’m afraid so, buddy. This good-bye is our last good-bye. Don’t shed a tear. We had our day in the sun and the rain. I guess I really don’t blame you. I was getting a bit creaky lately.”

“I guess it’s so-long then.”

“Yeah. Maybe we’ll pass on some trail someday in the future. But, do me a favor. Don’t mention our life together. Let’s keep it our little secret.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m seeing this hot little rucksack I met on the Appalachian Trail. If she knew we had a past, it might ruin everything. I want to take her to a Youth Hostel and, you know…get a little private room and then perhaps, in the future, we can start our own little family of Fanny Packs.”

“Not to worry,” I said. “I won’t give us away.”

“You always said the right things.”

Dan & Daughter At Rest

My father is hidden behind everything I am.

–Adrienne Egan “Danny Boy” (From a high school essay)

[Long Pond with Long Pond Mountain in the distance. Photo Courtesy of Terri Mendelson]

I have long dreaded what was about to take place. As I approached the shore of Long Pond, the memories began to weigh heavy on my heart. How often had I stood in the sand since the early 1980’s when my older brother, Chris, discovered the St. Regis Wilderness Canoe Area? A group of friends followed me to the beach. My son, Brian, carried a backpack that held a black box. I was about to say a final goodbye to my brother, Dan. He was the last of my brothers…the last Egan from Owego…except me. I was alone now. I thought of a phone call in 2019.

Mariam and I were in a pub in Dorset, England. The establishment was closed except for several dozen locals. It was Christmas Day. The dinner was for those who had nowhere else to go for the holiday. Mariam had located the small square in the pub where cell phone reception was weak but present. She punched in the number. It was a phone call I wish didn’t have to happen.

I spoke (or tried to with a broken signal) to my brother, Dan. He was in a hospice bed and he had about forty hours or so to live. I managed to say “I love you” but I don’t think he could make out the words.

Two days later, while we were settling in for dinner at the White Lion Inn, Mariam’s cell rang. The message was simple. The message was clear…and final. Dan had passed away.

I signed a paper to allow for Dan’s cremation.

Years later, in early August, 2022 I sat up in bed and realized that I was the one responsible for the cremains. I chose August 27 for the day to fulfill Dan’s will and have his ashes left in Long Pond.

~ ~ ~

Many years ago, back in 1991, just after I arrived in New York City to take a new teaching job, my phone rang. It was my father. What he told me sent shivers down my spine and tears to my eyes. Dan, who had been badly injured in Viet Nam, was told by the doctors that a) he would never walk again and b) he would never father a child. He proved the good doctors wrong. He walked with a limp…but he walked. And, he had a daughter by a young woman named Diana. The child’s name was Adrienne.

All was well until it wasn’t.

Adrienne and other college mates were having a party event on the roof of Adrienne’s dormitory. The facts are vague in my mind. The others left the roof…left the roof for Adrienne. She fell asleep. She rolled to the roof edge. She fell. She died.

Something died in my brother that day. His personality darkened. But he pushed through much of the grief…as much as one can…and he began to age. We all aged. But Adrienne was destined to be the teenager that lived in Dan’s memory. For the rest of his days.

Dan has been reunited with his daughter in the urn.

They both will enjoy the sunsets and storms that roll over Long Pond. The ice of winter. The buzz of mosquitos and black flies will fill their ears. The wind will howl in the dark nights of winter. The burning sun of summer. The meteor showers and the Aurora. The rainbows and the woodsmoke. These are all the things that Long Pond will offer them as it welcomes the new arrivals.

[For the Memorial Service. Photo courtesy of Bart Durkin]

The Troll Who Cried

[Heading off to the Barnum Brook Bridge]

I began my walk to the Barnum Brook Bridge carrying an emotional load that nearly broke my already painful back. It was a warm and very muggy afternoon. There were grey clouds in the hazy sky. There were grey clouds in my mind, my soul and my heart. I was not dreading the Bridge like I once did. In fact, I was looking forward to visiting an old friend…sort of. I walked slowly because I needed the extra minutes to think. At the same time, I was formulating my words. It’s not every day that one has to say farewell to a friend. For me, now was that time. I must make this my finest hour.

I walked on, pausing to photograph a wildflower for a later post on Facebook.

[The Trail to the Barnum Brook Bridge]

I had arrived. I put my foot down hard on the first plank, making more noise than usual. Sure enough, out pops The Troll. He looked about and disappeared beneath the bridge when he spotted me.

“Who is passing over my bridge?” he asked.

“I am passing over your bridge,” I said. “Let’s get this over with. I need to sit down.

He emerged from under the wooden planks and said: “I know you. Listen up. Keep your distance.”

“Why?”

“The Covid thing, remember. Are you still in lock-down mode?”

“Not really,” I said. “Things aren’t as bad as they were when I last came this way. Now it’s the Monkey Pox.”

“Just in case, don’t come any closer. I’m packing a can of Mace.”

“Let’s get the riddle thing over, shall we. I need to have a talk with you.”

[The Bridge. If you look closely for a long enough time, you may see a bit of Troll’s head peeping out]

“Okay. Okay. Here’s the first riddle:

What is dirty when it’s white?”

I pondered the question for about forty-five seconds when it came to me. “A Blackboard.”

“One down and two biggies to go, Patrick.

What goes from Z to A?”

Another new one. Where did he get these riddles? I thought. This time I was really puzzled…for about a minute. “Zebra”, I almost shouted.

“Whoa. Who’s on a roll today?”

“I am. Let me have the third one, Sir Troll.”

“Don’t get cheeky, my friend. You know what fate awaits you if you miss one. I cringe to even contemplate…”

“Spill it,” I demanded.

He looked smug. He thought he was going to get me on the last one.

He spoke with a twinkle in his large eyes: “What is the saddest fruit?”

Now I was worried. I had no idea. This wasn’t in the Big Book of Riddles I study before every trip to the VIC. And no mention of any of these new puzzles in the Ultimate Book of Norse Mythology. The newer edition that has a new forward by the author, Dr. Sven Sunquist.

“The clock is ticking, Patrick.”

“Go ahead, grind my bones or whatever you do when someone misses a riddle. I give up.”

He stared long and hard at me: “You look like a beaten donkey. I see damage in your eyes. I’m going to give you a pass. The answer, appropriately, is Blueberries. You can pass, but you owe me one.”

“I owe you a riddle?”

“Figure of speech,” he said. “Don’t get anal on me.”

I sat down on the wooden bench near the bridge: “I’ve got something to tell you, Troll.”

“You won the Mega Millions.”

“Don’t I wish. No, it’s…it’s that we’re going away. We’re moving. We’re going back to New York City, I do believe I’ve had enough woods and winter and slush and bugs.”

He looked deep into my eyes again. No words came to his lips. He just looked at me. His eyes were moist. He sighed.

“How long are you gonna be gone?” he asked slowly while trying to swallow. “When can I expect to visit with my favorite human again?”

[A rare image of The Troll]

I chocked at my following words: “That’s just it, Troll. We’re moving away for good. It’s possible that we may never see each other again. Don’t think for a moment that I won’t miss you because I will. You see Troll, these last few months have been very hard on me. I lost my closest friend. I wish he had just moved somewhere, but he didn’t. He passed away. I have only a few real friends. You could count them on two of your three fingers. I’m lonely up here in the North Country. You, Troll, are the only real friend I have left…besides my wife, of course.”

He had one hand in his pocket and the other one rested on the planks of the bridge. He was drumming his fingers on the dried wood. He said: “Funny thing. I don’t have many real and true friends either. We’re both the same here, are we not?”

He turned away and began to cry. He didn’t just cry, he sobbed and wailed. I’d never seen him like this before.

“Please Troll, don’t make this any harder. It’s not you, it’s me. You have your little place under the bridge. I’m a restless guy. I need a change. I need something new. I don’t know how many years I have left.”

“Hah, I can see right through you. You’re leaving me for some Big City Troll, right? I knew it. Those Big City Trolls are different than ones like me. They wear the traditional outfits. They look like they just got off a photo shoot with National Geographic Magazine.”

“No, there’s nobody else, in New York or anywhere. Come here. Let me shake your hand and wish you farewell.”

“Oh, but that’s against the Rules. You can’t touch me. Strange things might happen.”

“There are no such Rules out here, Troll. Here, give me your hand.”

As he placed his very large hand in mine I felt a jolt. I swear a bolt of lightening hit my arm. I closed my eyes. I had visions. Troll standing in the rain and waving at me, or standing in a foot of snow and grinning up with those big cow-like eyes. Or wiping away the sweat on days like this. I remember how he played the Pan Flute and made me see the different Adirondack seasons squeezed into one short vision. He was a treasure trove of wisdom and I’d be crazy to let him go out of my life for good. No. I would return someday…some sunny day. I will be older, more feeble, more pained and maybe just a little bit wiser. But Troll, he will never age. He has all the time in the world. I don’t.

I withdrew my hand: “I have to go now. Be good, my friend. It’s not forever, it’s just for awhile. I’ll be back.”

“That’s what the little girl said in Poltergeist.”

I turned and began the walk back to my car.

“I see your son was in Iceland for a few days. He loved it, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but how did you know?”

“My Icelandic cousin. And, oh, I see your daughter, her husband and your grandson came for a visit. I bet you loved that.”

“I did.”

“Oh, by the way. I know you used a photo of Fluffy to hawk your books. That’s shameful.”

“Little Lambs Eat Ivy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the Riddle King. Figure it out.”

The trail curved to the left. I looked back for one more wave. I saw him blowing his large nose with a red bandana.

[Note: All photos are mine with the exception of the Troll image. That was a result of a Google search.]