Category Archives: The Adirondacks

The Persistence of Memory: Chris, Bill and High Adventures

Where’s my high quality mug?

~~ Bill Zeller

On a very chilly afternoon in early December, Mariam and I stood in the doorway of a friend’s house in Dunbarton, NH. The warmth of his hand infused me and the gleam in his eyes inspired me. We went in, met his wife, Anne and Pepper, their dog. We then settled in for two days of memories…some of which I thought I had lost forever.

I was all of thirteen when I first met Bill Zeller. He was the new 4-H Extension Agent for Tioga County, in New York State. He had become friends with my older brother, Chris. The two of them, along with Phil Gage were active outdoor people, and fervent canoeists. I was often invited to join in the adventures. Later, this involved hiking and camping in the High Peaks of the Adirondack Mountains.

[On one such trip, in December, my brother asked me to go over to the ranger cabin and check the temperature. It was night and I held the flashlight on the wall thermometer.

“It’s 28,” I yelled to Chris. It felt colder.

“Where is the “0”?,” he asked.

“It’s above the 28,” I replied. It took a minute to sink into my adolescent brain…it was -28 F.]

I went back to the fire and sat with Chris, Bill Zeller and Phil Gage while we watched our hot chocolate freeze over. I thought I was having an adventure.

The camping and canoeing continued until Bill got drafted. That was around 1960 or 61. I don’t believe I saw Bill after that, until a few weeks ago, on his front porch, an old house that was next door to the house where he grew up.

That’s over fifty years!

[Bill’s house. Built ca. 1831. Photo is mine.]

We took a brief walk around the town square. Brief because it was cold and my back was, as usual, hurting. The quiet was soothing after a hectic drive around Boston from Salem.

[The Dunbarton Cemetery. Photo is mine.]

We visited the library, located across the street from his house. A book collection so close to one’s house is a dream for many, including me.

But it wasn’t until later in the afternoon that we sat in his living room and told stories of what great things we did back in the day. (See the lead photo).

My brother went on to teach at a college in Petersburg, VA. I went on to working on the icefields of Alaska, college and then 30+ years of teaching. Bill never lost his love for canoes or kayaks. He has a camp in Northern Maine where he would ply the waters of rivers in Labrador and elsewhere. He also kayaked the Yukon River and other waters in the north. He was living a dream.

The city lights, traffic and crowds that define our life here in NYC, holds no special interest for Bill. A cabin. A crackling fire. The smell of wood smoke and pine trees are where Bill and Anne would be most happy.

[Bill ready to kayak the ice floes. Caribou antlers were a found object. Photo: Bill Zeller.]

As I sat and listened to his stories and memories, I was quiet, trying to deal with the flood of events and places that I haven’t thought about in decades.

[A man. A kayak. Antlers. Photo: Bill Zeller.]

The evening before we left, they drove us to Dover where we had a excellent dinner at an Italian restaurant.

[I had white clam sauce pasta. Photo is mine.]

We left at mid-day. I was reluctant to say good-bye to Bill because we had only scratched the surface of our memories. So much was left unsaid…unspoken. But a half-century old friendship was rekindled and more, newer memories are in my heart. I can’t think of anyone I would rather sit beside a blazing campfire with and spin yarns and tell tales or sit silently, more words left unspoken, to just watch the smoke drift up through the branches of a whispering evergreen tree.

Thank you, Bill and Anne for being such gracious hosts. I wish I could have packed up some of the warmth of the wood stove to bring back to our home. But the warmth we got from our visit will suffice for now.

See you in Maine…

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.