Two days after Thanksgiving, a feast for the senses. Silent Cougar and Major Tom head from Lake Skannatati to Stockbridge Mountain. Ten-and-a-half miles, as a cold clear morning turns into a colder and blustery afternoon. Seven hours in the near-wilderness of Harriman Park. This is our next-to-last section of the Long Path in Harriman...just one more 5-mile stretch, and the whole southern section of the Path will be in our rear-view mirror.
It seems like the joke is on us, but we just laugh along. We watch three nuthatches, at the beginning, middle and end of the hike, just dancing around and making fun of us. Tree to tree, upside-down and rightside-up, silly song like a confused chickadee. They can not imagine why we are hiking that trail; not eating tasty insects or scouting for springtime nesting sites. I guess we are kind of ridiculous. But we just shrug it off and press forward.
Crunch, crunch, crunch...hoarfrost and acorns. Have there ever been so many acorns? We see a few overworked squirrels: no dancing for them. Just dashing about with harried looks. How thoughtless of the oak trees to overwhelm their furry friends so. I assure Silent Cougar that the frost will soon melt, but it never does. Little vernal and autumnal pools with films of ice, and snow flurries on top of Fingerboard Mountain. The first snow of the year! Numb cheeks and stiff fingers. Are you ready for winter?
Never seen so much coyote scat. Imagine swallowing all that fur! I guess acorns turn into squirrels turn into coyotes. And such product placement...how do they drop it so neatly on the center of a stone? Generations of practice, I suppose.
I love the beginning of this hike: the shores of Skannatati, the mountain laurel, the south-facing cliffs with caves plucked by the glaciers, the burbling streams through hemlock ravines. So much of what is right about Harriman Park, summarized in a short stretch of trail. Tell a friend, child. Times Square has seen better days, but the Appalachian Trail intersection is still magical...signs point in the four directions, listing distances to magical places from Georgia to Maine, from George Washington Bridge to Altamont. Two legendary trails. I love this spot.
A beautiful buck pauses on the ridge to our right. He is posing for a picture, I guess. The moment passes as three women appear with dogs. The deer changes plans and passes out of view. His image lingers after he is gone; was he ever really there?
We miss the side trail to Lemon Squeezer, too captivated by a beautiful marsh on the other side. Amber waves of phragmites, glistening in the low rays of the sun, shedding a last few bits of fluff in the gusts of wind. The air is cold, but the sun still warms your legs. Along the edge of the marsh, an impossibly clear stream, tiny forests of sphagnum moss.
We pass through an area that burned, maybe twenty years ago. I remember when this looked like a battlefield. Today, you can still see charred stumps, but a new generation of pine trees is pushing up along the edges of the clearing. Bright green and full of energy...big plans! The ancient metamorphic bedrock in the clearing doesn't seem worried. Over millions of years, many generations of trees have risen and fallen. Even a forest fire seems insignificant after 10 glaciers have come and gone.
Arden Valley Road looks absurd; smoother even than glacially polished gneiss bedrock, and blacker than chunks of magnetite ore. Sharper edges than the harsh shadows of pine trees on vertical rock walls. We hurry across...this road does not seem to belong here. I think I hear Mother Nature laughing; she will close this road for the winter. Humans do not control this place.
Onwards and upwards, we are feeling strong. Stockbridge Mountain does not look so steep from here. The old woods road is wide and gentle. We are lulled into a false sense of confidence. A sudden left turn changes everything! A rapid climb, breathing faster, hiker's high! Feet heavy yet floating, legs sore yet tingling with anticipation, blood sugar low, fat reserves burning, brain just laughing because it is all so funny. Mother Nature strikes again!
On top of the mountain, the swirling snow flakes are just too perfect. A vulture wheels overhead: my spirit animal. He ignores me...our connection is too obvious to acknowledge, so he just plays it cool. I am impressed for the millionth time as he compensates for the wind gusts with slight adjustments in the angle of his wings. Suddenly way down range, but hey, just go with the flow. Bend but don't break. Maybe there is a dead coyote down there. Vulture droppings can nourish the oak trees, for the next crop of acorns. Keep the wheel turning...
Up another cliff, smooth face this time, no caves. The shelter on top is inhabited, so we move on. The sun is low over the hills. A panoramic view, but no other signs of "civilization." That's all right; Nature is okay with herself.
The long walk down, two miles on feet like lead and legs like noodles. A quick stop in the cave shelter. We make our marks on a rock with charcoal from the firplace. My symbol means "Listen!" and Silent Cougar, of course, makes a pawprint. He had visions here in the past. It would be nice to take the time today, but it will get really cold when the sun sets...
We are rewarded with our bookends: nuthatch, acorns and scat. Must be near the end of the line. The woods are smiling a benediction as we head out. Route 6 seems like an insult: dozens of cars driving too fast. Where are they all going? Holiday shopping at Woodbury Commons? I don't want to bring my head back into the material world. It is a relief to reach the car. Home to the other half of the family. We feel very lucky to have shared a day in the woods with our furry and crunchy friends.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
Out of the Woods
On September 4, 2010, we left Harriman Park behind us. Well, we actually need to fill in three chunks in the Park, but on this day, we crossed the line. Nyack Rocks dropped Silent Cougar and two secret companions along the side of route 6, next to the intersection with route 293. Nyack Rocks drove down the long scenic highway toward the Thruway, while the three amigos headed into the woods.
It's a long way around this particular block. Once you cross 87, you try to head north on 32, but the Woodbury Commons creates a lot of drama. Finally you cruise through town, and try to to cross back to meet the hikers. Unfortunately, part of Estrada Road is closed, entailing much zigging and zagging. After driving several miles, you meet the hikers at the end of Estrada Road, where they have walked a very short distance through the woods.
The Long Path follows several of these small roads, then heads back under the trees near the Woodbury Creek. The Long Path Guide (5th edition, 2005) is no longer accurate for this stretch...should have checked the website. Silent Cougar and Brother went in from the South end, while Nyack Rocks and Nature Mom headed in from the North. This is a very strange section of the Path, having two major obstacles to cross. The Woodbury Creek must be pretty scary in the Spring, because the trail goes to bizarre lengths to cross it. In early September, the stream is rather dry. There is an amazing assortment of cobbles and boulders in the streambed, including the beautiful purple conglomerate from Schunemunk.
The other obstacle is a bit scarier: the MetroNorth track. The trains cross over the creek and route 32 on an old trestle, way up high. They move fast! The trestle reminded me of the one in the Harry Potter movies. The scariest part is walking under the old steelwork, which is rotten and rusty. There are holes in the girders, large enough to stick your finger through. Everywhere on the ground are metal parts: bolts and plates and unidentifiable rusty pieces. Mixed throughout are chunks of coal from an earlier time. An ode to fossil fuels.
Continuing south, the Long Path follows an old road bed along the Creek. Across the stream is a row of houses, then route 32. Drunken people were driving a tractor around in circles, singing and screaming. Their barbeque smelled good. They yelled something at us, then went back to singing. Here come Silent Cougar and Brother. Time to turn around, dash under the rickety bridge and cross the dry gulch. I guess we are out of the woods.
It's a long way around this particular block. Once you cross 87, you try to head north on 32, but the Woodbury Commons creates a lot of drama. Finally you cruise through town, and try to to cross back to meet the hikers. Unfortunately, part of Estrada Road is closed, entailing much zigging and zagging. After driving several miles, you meet the hikers at the end of Estrada Road, where they have walked a very short distance through the woods.
The Long Path follows several of these small roads, then heads back under the trees near the Woodbury Creek. The Long Path Guide (5th edition, 2005) is no longer accurate for this stretch...should have checked the website. Silent Cougar and Brother went in from the South end, while Nyack Rocks and Nature Mom headed in from the North. This is a very strange section of the Path, having two major obstacles to cross. The Woodbury Creek must be pretty scary in the Spring, because the trail goes to bizarre lengths to cross it. In early September, the stream is rather dry. There is an amazing assortment of cobbles and boulders in the streambed, including the beautiful purple conglomerate from Schunemunk.
The other obstacle is a bit scarier: the MetroNorth track. The trains cross over the creek and route 32 on an old trestle, way up high. They move fast! The trestle reminded me of the one in the Harry Potter movies. The scariest part is walking under the old steelwork, which is rotten and rusty. There are holes in the girders, large enough to stick your finger through. Everywhere on the ground are metal parts: bolts and plates and unidentifiable rusty pieces. Mixed throughout are chunks of coal from an earlier time. An ode to fossil fuels.
Continuing south, the Long Path follows an old road bed along the Creek. Across the stream is a row of houses, then route 32. Drunken people were driving a tractor around in circles, singing and screaming. Their barbeque smelled good. They yelled something at us, then went back to singing. Here come Silent Cougar and Brother. Time to turn around, dash under the rickety bridge and cross the dry gulch. I guess we are out of the woods.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Cheesecote to St. John's, Harriman Park
It's an amazing transition from the suburbs to virtual wilderness. It happens so fast. The people of North Rockland are lucky to live so close to Harriman Park. From the mystic vibes of Cheesecote, across Call Hollow Road, and up into the highlands. People have lived here and worked here, but they are gone now. I admire them, and how hard they must have worked. Is it better now, gone back to the ancient rocks and roaring streams and gnarled trees and invisible animals watching you? Maybe sad to see the foundations and rocky roads grown over, but the overwhelming sensation of time puts it all in perspective. Nature is more patient than we are. Even with our frenetic bursts of energy and development, she will always wait us out in the long run. It seems all right somehow.
Major Tom and Silent Cougar continue their gradual progress up the Long Path. MJ and ZMan came along today, with a gray sky and a chilly breeze. Spooky weather, but we did not get the ghostly shivers of Cheesecote. Even when we stopped for our silent meditation on a rocky hilltop, I couldn't empty my mind enough to truly commune with the elements. Oh, it was beautiful and lonely and special; I just could not shake the physical parameters. We had a nice climb up, with lots of birds (including a pileated woodpecker), streams with mesmerizing eddies, and tunnels of mountain laurel. Maybe it was me, just being too rooted in reality.
About halfway along our 3.5 mile hike, I felt a sudden shift. Perhaps the "hikers' high" kicked in. Maybe it took that long to shed the emotional baggage of a long week at work. I don't know. The exact moment for me came when a bird vibrated past my right ear. A sudden explosion of wingbeats. At the same instant, four snowflakes hit my face. Were they tiny, cold raindrops? As fast as I turned, the bird was gone. Was it really ever there? I was finally transported where I needed to be. Nature never lets me down; I just have to be patient sometimes.
Silent Cougar was up ahead with ZMan. We had gone through the social phase of the hike, and they were now waiting and listening. I recovered from my mental shift and quietly joined them. They had found a hollow where there was no sound. Uncanny. One of my favorite feelings. Ancient eyes watching us. Animals that have prowled these woods for thousands of years. People have come and gone. The elders will wait patiently, knowing that we will soon leave also. When SC and ZMan whispered, there was an amazing projection, almost an echo, then an awed hush, as if no one had ever spoken before. I felt the power of the place too. A rocky bottom, filled with trees, a tiny waterfall in a slow vernal stream. Looking up at the slope ahead of us, dozens of boulders, just sitting there. Or were they moving slowly downhill? How far had they moved since the glaciers melted, 10,000 years ago? Maybe if they were in fast forward, or if we slowed down, we would see them creep downhill. The Stones of Years that ELP sang about. Up the big hill...
At the high point, we came to a beautiful old shelter, on top of a mountain with an amazing view. It was all downhill from there, in a beautiful way. The second half of the hike was much more special than the first. Was it mind-set or setting? Either way, I would recommend walking from South to North on this stretch. MJ loved the ice on the rocks, and the beautiful swampy pond on top of a hill. Frosty sheets with leaf patterns. Fluffy green sphagnum moss. ZMan put his hands in every stream and pond that we passed. He lay flat on rocks, crouched on bridges, and jumped from stone to stone across streams. A watery paradise.
Almost to the church of St. John's in the Wilderness, we passed through a beautiful grove of red pine trees. A place of dignity and power and timelessness. I felt completely humbled as I stumbled back onto the blacktop. A pleasant hike in the woods had irrevocably changed, when I felt a natural mystic blowing through the air.
Major Tom and Silent Cougar continue their gradual progress up the Long Path. MJ and ZMan came along today, with a gray sky and a chilly breeze. Spooky weather, but we did not get the ghostly shivers of Cheesecote. Even when we stopped for our silent meditation on a rocky hilltop, I couldn't empty my mind enough to truly commune with the elements. Oh, it was beautiful and lonely and special; I just could not shake the physical parameters. We had a nice climb up, with lots of birds (including a pileated woodpecker), streams with mesmerizing eddies, and tunnels of mountain laurel. Maybe it was me, just being too rooted in reality.
About halfway along our 3.5 mile hike, I felt a sudden shift. Perhaps the "hikers' high" kicked in. Maybe it took that long to shed the emotional baggage of a long week at work. I don't know. The exact moment for me came when a bird vibrated past my right ear. A sudden explosion of wingbeats. At the same instant, four snowflakes hit my face. Were they tiny, cold raindrops? As fast as I turned, the bird was gone. Was it really ever there? I was finally transported where I needed to be. Nature never lets me down; I just have to be patient sometimes.
Silent Cougar was up ahead with ZMan. We had gone through the social phase of the hike, and they were now waiting and listening. I recovered from my mental shift and quietly joined them. They had found a hollow where there was no sound. Uncanny. One of my favorite feelings. Ancient eyes watching us. Animals that have prowled these woods for thousands of years. People have come and gone. The elders will wait patiently, knowing that we will soon leave also. When SC and ZMan whispered, there was an amazing projection, almost an echo, then an awed hush, as if no one had ever spoken before. I felt the power of the place too. A rocky bottom, filled with trees, a tiny waterfall in a slow vernal stream. Looking up at the slope ahead of us, dozens of boulders, just sitting there. Or were they moving slowly downhill? How far had they moved since the glaciers melted, 10,000 years ago? Maybe if they were in fast forward, or if we slowed down, we would see them creep downhill. The Stones of Years that ELP sang about. Up the big hill...
At the high point, we came to a beautiful old shelter, on top of a mountain with an amazing view. It was all downhill from there, in a beautiful way. The second half of the hike was much more special than the first. Was it mind-set or setting? Either way, I would recommend walking from South to North on this stretch. MJ loved the ice on the rocks, and the beautiful swampy pond on top of a hill. Frosty sheets with leaf patterns. Fluffy green sphagnum moss. ZMan put his hands in every stream and pond that we passed. He lay flat on rocks, crouched on bridges, and jumped from stone to stone across streams. A watery paradise.
Almost to the church of St. John's in the Wilderness, we passed through a beautiful grove of red pine trees. A place of dignity and power and timelessness. I felt completely humbled as I stumbled back onto the blacktop. A pleasant hike in the woods had irrevocably changed, when I felt a natural mystic blowing through the air.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Skannatati to St. Johns, Harriman Park
We hiked this one in reverse, from north to south. Major Tom and Silent Cougar brought
MJ and ZMan along this time. It was an unseasonably warm day in mid-January, a holiday in honor of Martin Luther King. We started at Lake Skannatati, from which we had hiked north on the Long Path so many times. This time we went the opposite way, into terra incognita.
Across Seven Lakes Drive, we traversed the bridge over the outlet from Lake Askoti. Melting ice fed a lively stream below us, tumbling down into Skannatati. Hiking steadily uphill, we dodged a barrage of snowballs from the middle school generation. Over the ridge and down, across route 106 into a mystical realm of musical streams and silent sentinels.
Out of a marsh flowed a stream, swirling past rounded boulders and echoing under shells of ice. We sat there in silence for some time, emptying our minds, and filling them with ancient watery melodies. Deep wooden-timbred chimes, rhythms unbounded by any human obsession with beats and measures, music in no hurry because it was not limited by human lifespans. The stream seemed as interested in us as we were in it. Curious and humorous and talkative, bouncing around the silent, still humans. Magical.
Two larches stood naked, watching over the spot where the marsh waters gathered for their plunge downstream. Fragments of ice sculpted into fantastic shapes were re-fashioned as they slowly melted before our eyes. It was hard to leave this place.
We forged onward and upward, through a mile of mountain laurel. The path was a twisting river itself, the gnarled laurel trunks surrounding us like silent sentinels. We started at the bottom of a bowl, surrounded by a rim of hills. We crested the rim, and dove into a new valley. There was a powerful sense of eyes watching us. We waited in silence, but our hidden friends stayed out of sight. Perhaps it was the laurels, rooted in one spot, but spreading messages through their roots, like electricity. Up and up and up, we entered a new world, the remains of a farm. There were walls, and huge maples that had grown in open fields. The place felt warm and friendly, as if the ruins held no grudge against the race that left them to the forces of freeze and thaw.
Down again, along the old farm road, where countless hooves had once beaten a rhythm of their own. Enormous trees with spreading limbs and giant boles. Across Lake Welch Drive, near the intersection of Johnsontown Road. The Long Path took wild swerves around hills and marshes. Here the birds took a great interest in us, flitting around from thicket to thicket. We talked about them, and they talked about us. Good-natured and welcoming, but always keeping their distance. We were not the most important thing in their day. Insects to catch and seeds to crack.
Where the Long Path turned right, we turned left and emerged from the woods at the church of St. Johns in the Wilderness. A beautiful spot filled with childhood memories. A gentle transition back to a man-made landscape. Trees and stones had been turned into buildings, but very much resembling their wild cousins in the hills and forests. A happy place to end a powerful experience with nature.
MJ and ZMan along this time. It was an unseasonably warm day in mid-January, a holiday in honor of Martin Luther King. We started at Lake Skannatati, from which we had hiked north on the Long Path so many times. This time we went the opposite way, into terra incognita.
Across Seven Lakes Drive, we traversed the bridge over the outlet from Lake Askoti. Melting ice fed a lively stream below us, tumbling down into Skannatati. Hiking steadily uphill, we dodged a barrage of snowballs from the middle school generation. Over the ridge and down, across route 106 into a mystical realm of musical streams and silent sentinels.
Out of a marsh flowed a stream, swirling past rounded boulders and echoing under shells of ice. We sat there in silence for some time, emptying our minds, and filling them with ancient watery melodies. Deep wooden-timbred chimes, rhythms unbounded by any human obsession with beats and measures, music in no hurry because it was not limited by human lifespans. The stream seemed as interested in us as we were in it. Curious and humorous and talkative, bouncing around the silent, still humans. Magical.
Two larches stood naked, watching over the spot where the marsh waters gathered for their plunge downstream. Fragments of ice sculpted into fantastic shapes were re-fashioned as they slowly melted before our eyes. It was hard to leave this place.
We forged onward and upward, through a mile of mountain laurel. The path was a twisting river itself, the gnarled laurel trunks surrounding us like silent sentinels. We started at the bottom of a bowl, surrounded by a rim of hills. We crested the rim, and dove into a new valley. There was a powerful sense of eyes watching us. We waited in silence, but our hidden friends stayed out of sight. Perhaps it was the laurels, rooted in one spot, but spreading messages through their roots, like electricity. Up and up and up, we entered a new world, the remains of a farm. There were walls, and huge maples that had grown in open fields. The place felt warm and friendly, as if the ruins held no grudge against the race that left them to the forces of freeze and thaw.
Down again, along the old farm road, where countless hooves had once beaten a rhythm of their own. Enormous trees with spreading limbs and giant boles. Across Lake Welch Drive, near the intersection of Johnsontown Road. The Long Path took wild swerves around hills and marshes. Here the birds took a great interest in us, flitting around from thicket to thicket. We talked about them, and they talked about us. Good-natured and welcoming, but always keeping their distance. We were not the most important thing in their day. Insects to catch and seeds to crack.
Where the Long Path turned right, we turned left and emerged from the woods at the church of St. Johns in the Wilderness. A beautiful spot filled with childhood memories. A gentle transition back to a man-made landscape. Trees and stones had been turned into buildings, but very much resembling their wild cousins in the hills and forests. A happy place to end a powerful experience with nature.
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