Betty's Last Ride
Since I’m selling Betty as part of the overhaul of my
family’s transportation I thought a weekend camping in the Adirondacks with a
friend would be the final jaunt for my pick up truck which has been a faithful
steed on many an upstate journey. But surprise circumstances (thank God for out
of town visits by old friends … of my wife’s) permitted another free weekend
and I thought: Road Trip!
Considering, however, the heavy footwork of a recent backpacking
trip in the mountains a road trip seemed a compelling alternative and a good
excuse to log some final miles in the truck, maybe do some car camping in a
state park - something I hadn’t done since the backpacking bug bit.
The targeted area for the trip was New York State’s
Central region. I’d wanted to further explore this area since first visiting it
in summer of 2000 when I camped at Glimmerglass
State Park near Cooperstown and had my
first experience of the farmlands of New
York. The region is a vast valley lying between the
Catskill Mountains to the south and the Adirondack
Mountains to the north and bisected by the Mohawk River-Erie Canal
water route. I packed minimally, jamming a sleeping bag, some long johns and
extra socks, and some basic cooking gear into a rucksack. Lightness wasn’t an
issue this time since I wasn’t going to have to be the mule for my stuff. I
left Brooklyn on a Friday night a few hours
before midnight.
As usual I fled the city via the Thruway. Motoring north I
mulled over how far to go that night, what set of routes tomorrow might hold
and hopes for good weather. I had that giddy feeling an unexpected trip brings
to any freewheeling soul. Traveling alone I could expect free reign on all the
behavior my wife would suffer: driving late, the windows down, smoking
cigarettes, sleeping in the truck, and most of all no firm plan.
Made good time; factoring in an extended rest stop at one of
those travel plazas to slap some cold water on my face and scan the map a
while. In the early AM hours, about 10 miles south of Albany metro area limits, I ditched the
highway for a state route near Selkirk. Within moments all trace of the tempo
and pitch of the interstate vanished and I was the only vehicle moving on the
road. The scant presence of any lights would have meant near total darkness but
for a radiant full moon chroming the road, landscape and all else in its
blue-white luminosity. I was making for NY 144 on a one lane road and each time
it dipped I submerged into thick banks of fog. At one point I hadn’t slowed
down to the appropriate single digit miles per hour until an enormous stag
materialized out of nowhere like some night apparition and darted away from me
just in the nick of time. Speed adjustments followed immediately. The dense terrestrial
vapors hovered above the ground in enormous sea-like patches stretching for miles;
top lit by the moon, my black truck cresting out of them like a manta each time
the road took a rise.
I continued on 144 through these surreal filaments until I
came to Schoharie where I visited Old
Stone Fort, a Palatine garrison, on my summer 2000 trip. At the road atlas
designated attraction I looked out, then, over the near valley and was
impressed by the clean health of it all. That was the day I fell in love with
the state. (Old Stone Fort, by the
way, has, among other things, a respectably thorough collection of state fauna somewhat
folkishly exhibited in glass cases reminiscent of post-War school furniture achieving
a sort of dusty, time-stands-still effect somehow.) In Schoharie the road
intersected with state route 30 which I followed north for five miles to the
town of Esperance.
(Fifteen miles further north this same road is my usual exit off the Thruway
into the central Adirondacks.) In Esperance I turned
onto US 20. Driving west the scenic territory was rendered bright but flat in
the night and knowing how much more dimensional it would be in full color I
decided to find a cut off the road to park and get a few hours of sleep. That
and the fact that it was 3 AM and I was down to one smoke, let’s call it a
night. Found a discreet notch off the road and had said smoke while I wedged
the seat belt anchors behind the seat so they wouldn’t jab my back and settled
into a comfortable enough posture across the bench. I fell asleep looking at
the Earth’s satellite through the windshield wondering why it was such a
pleasure to be in a condition of near vagrancy. Was it relief from doing things
some “right” or sensible way, or foregoing the comfort of a motel which I could
easily afford? I suppose what felt so good was the sense of detachment,
anonymity, and simplicity of style. Or maybe it was merely the indulging of a
fantasy cousined to nomadic wayfaring of another era.
I glanced at my watch around 6:00 AM before really waking at
7, that last hour of contented dozing accompanied by the thrum of Saturday’s
early commerce, trucks lumbering along. I brushed my teeth there mildly
contemplating in the light of day the
notch off the road where I had laid over. A few moments later, wheeling onto
the road, pointing west, I anticipated the first place where I could gas up
Betty and get my necessary road trip fuels too. Breakfast was coffee, an egg
sandwich and a small sack of beef jerky. The early morning sky and atmosphere
suggested it was going to be a perfect day. A crisp, even light filled the
truck cab and calmly heightened all the plain things near me. The coffee cup,
the map, a curl of smoke sucking toward the window gap. Plain. Comprehensible.
Driving along I was immersed in an arc of waking farms, undulating green ground
and fences that lunged parallel to Betty as she coursed along happily in her
element. Continuing on US 20 I was skirting north of Glimmerglass
State Park and Cooperstown.
From this point on I faced unexplored road. I did turn off at one point to
investigate a KOA just to see what they’re all about. One word: RV’s. Wonder
lodges of the itinerant retiree, deployed here like giant Easter eggs among the
grass. Some wives were out for their early morning brisk walks while a couple
of old codgers cranked up their Coleman stoves for breakfast. Acts summarily considered
as the taking off and the putting on of fatty foods. I say go for it. You
worked all those years; you have the right to decline just however you like. I
admire that the underlying motif is being out in a campground and not in some
high-rise condo. Although, would they if they could? I don’t know. At some
point appearances have to stand for the facts and I'll accept that this is
exactly what they want to be doing.
At route 28 I opted north. Approaching Mohawk the road
suddenly drops several hundred feet via a trio of rollercoaster descents and
bottoms out at the same named river. The appellation invokes the historical
fact that not so long ago this was Indian land which became settled first by
frontiersmen; then colonists; then citizens. The Remington gun factory and
museum here attest to the necessaries of peacekeeping and trading in those
times. This town, like others in the region, would have been a distant point on
the long routes between centers like New York
and Boston and Buffalo, a mile marker of respite and
restocking stores along a rugged way.
The Erie Canal extending the river and the advent of railways would have
brought towns like Mohawk out of obscurity but I suspect right up until the
development of modern highways this was considered territory far flung from the
big cities at either end of New York. In considering how distant home seemed now
in the midst of this expansive countryside and all the miles I’d driven to get
here, I sensed a cross temporal connection to that frontier heritage. Feeling,
I suppose, some pulse of the region’s history and a celebration of regionalism
itself, whatever shreds of it are left in the wake of its effacing forces is
what impels me to roam like this.
Much has been discussed of America’s migration west and for me
any road trip oriented west, however short, resonates with that history as a
kind of reenactment. I think there is even more to be discussed about travels
that follow the sun’s path versus those that counter it. To travel west is to
move with the grain of time and when that travel and time are ended it is a
kind of petit mort.
North of the river I kept on 28 through Herkimer and on up
to Remsen passing from Herkimer County to Oneida
County. This area is just
outside the western boundary of the Adirondack
Park but incrementally
north enough from where I’d started this day to evoke small modulations in the
terrain and atmosphere. Pines made their appearance in thick stands among the
blazing foliage of the hardwoods, a more mineral edge in the grass’s color, the
pastoral scenery more nuanced. Compact towns displayed well preserved classic
architectural styles in their older homes and work places detailed with stained
glass windows, stout stone chimneys, gables, and wrap around porches. A
backdrop of clean sky and even plating of gold light highlighted the scenes. Like
other migratory creatures I was homing in on a nameless destination guided by
internal compass.
In Remsen I turned onto a county route west to connect with NY46,
the way to Pixley
Falls State
Park. This segment ratcheted up the headiness of
the previous scenery and towns were becoming more distantly spaced. The drive
funneled me through banks of innumerable trees packed across slopes like
gigantic pixels of the classic autumn palette: bright, flaking yellows, deep
oranges, bouquets of crimson and in tow the greens of their as yet unchanged
siblings. Consistent with the day’s mileage some sort of stream, brook or river
wound its way astride or across my truck and me. The slow rise of land could
barely be detected but a surprise gap on the route allowed a view back to an
immense swath of valley which had as its probable horizon the general area I’d
woken up in. It was a breathtaking vista evoking a Thomas Hart Benton-like idealized
scene of agrarian bounty and beauty. A vast
hatch work of furrowed earth and paling stalks quilted the hips and troughs of
ground, staked here and there by silos and brick colored swatches of barn
sides.
A moment of anti-climax occurred at Pixley Falls
when I read a posted sign: camping was closed for the season. Before leaving
home I had checked a state website for which campgrounds were open south of the
river but hadn’t for up here so it had been a gamble anyway. I was halfway to
Boonville so I proceeded there and paused there for some map reading and
decisions about the rest of the day. I
half thought about heading into the Adirondacks for a camp site but that would
deflect from the region I’d intended to
focus on. I didn’t mind the idea of retracing 28 all the way back through
Mohawk but when I did a U-turn in a church parking lot in Boonville and Betty
made a suspicious noise I got a rush of adrenalin and thought, oh no! don’t
break down on me way out here. Okay, this was incentive for
shortening the tether on this frivolity. In the six years I’ve had this truck
and the numerous trips it has made into New York
State, New England and as far south as
Maryland it
had never broken down or even faltered. Considering I got it at 115,000 miles
and it was going to hit 170,000 on this trip it had performed well but I prayed
the swan song didn’t include a tragic note. I guess it was a caught branch or
something because nothing bad happened to diminish Betty’s record for
reliability as a road horse.
Entering Otsego County on 28 I had gone full circle and was soon
tunneling through the woods abutting the west shore
of Canadarago Lake
spaciously dotted with older lakeside houses appended with prim little piers.
You could tell living there was all about the water. Pontoon boats, sleek
hulled motorboats and little skiffs were variously moored. Some kids
scuttled around on the piers, others fished lackadaisically.
South of the lake the road returned again to the open
country of the state’s meadowed vale, I happily meandering under a borderless
ceiling of blue suffused with the high sun’s radiance and hung with mare’s tail
clouds. The road pitched and fell and leaned into the flanks of the October
land as I made for Gilbert
Lake State
Park.
It had been two years since I'd camped in a state park
and as I drove around the site loops to find a good spot I was surprised to
feel more acutely than expected,
differences from my backcountry mountain hikes. It’s apples and oranges really
but the campground had a welcome docility. This, like other New York campgrounds I’ve stayed in, was
mixed grassy and wooded areas situated around a lake, impeccably clean and
sheltered respectful guests contentedly sequestered in their own tent side
industry. I staked out my spot and then went for a walk down to the lake, a
glacial scar of about 40 acres. At the water’s edge a hem of trees grew out of
their blurred rejoinders impressionistically feathering the lake’s mirror with
the fall spectra.
Back at my site I set up camp, puttering around with
satisfaction: pitching my tent, getting a fire going, rustling up the
ridiculous foods I bought in the last town. For dinner I had a 99 cent loaf of
white bread and a pack of hot dogs to work with. I chuckled at the thought of
the diced vegetables on my dish, steamed loose from their frozen brick,
resembling a personal size serving of the seasonal landscape: green, orange and
yellow. I traded some packaged chocolate chip cookies with my neighbors for a
much appreciated Sprite. Breakfast would be a jumbo can of Campbell’s meat and potatoes soup plus a
couple of those cookies dipped in the evaporated milk I bought to go with some
instant coffee. The Folger’s had been in my truck for at least one year, drop
forged through winter and super-heated in the summer, it had petrified into a
slanted wedge in its jar but I wasn’t giving up on scraping out a cup’s worth.
Of course, this is exactly what camp-o-phobes fear the cuisine will be if they
ever have to go. I had shopped cheap, easy and dispensable on purpose. My only
requirement of a meal here was warm mass and it tasted great. The rest of the
evening I idly stoked the fire, listening to muted end of day chat among other
campers.
In spot 67 my tent was pitched off to the side on a flat of
lush grass centered in a circle of 100 foot pines naked three quarters of the
way up. Their lofty branches ringed a perfect disc of sky animated in the dark by
the rotating template of constellations and the arcing trajectories of interstellar
debris combusting in its fall and for a period, the false incandescence of a
full moon. I fell asleep to these movements visible through the skylight of my
tent’s ceiling, the two circumscribed portals like ends of a towering
telescope.
On Sunday I burned the last little firewood while I broke
down the camp. I packed up Betty and set off on routes decided over breakfast,
a course which reckoned a want to wander with the requirement to not stray too
far and roughly bend home. South of the campground I traveled on route 7 which
parallels the Susquehanna River, a magnificent
stretch of road which passes yet more lovely farms. Iconic white and green farm
homes, broad red barns with mansard roofs and attendant wells, sheds, pens, hen
houses and spines of fencing planted across the hills and pasture sat with
healthful dignity in their bucolic order and strained mutely to recall a
pastoral ideal only occasionally betrayed by oversized carbon colored satellite
dishes. Route 7 wound beside the river
past produce stands with pumpkins, knobby gourds and Indian corn and yard sales
with tempting tables of junk and on through noiseless small towns. One of these
towns, Unadilla, with dark red banners on lamp posts along its main street
informed passers-through it is the hometown of Boy Scout Troop 1.
Further on trout fishing camps showed themselves to be the
local preference in a campground lifestyle. “Ready to catch fish?” dared a
billboard. The occupants of these sites and their various RV’s and pop-up
trailers seemed a contented riparian society. In Sidney, with not a little resignation, I
wheeled east across the Susquehanna for the final section of my tour. Route 206
due east climbed out of the valley into the western foothills of the Catskill Mountains. Elevated panoramas of the lowlands
showcased rural junctions like toy villages nestled in the crooks of the hills.
A county road loop detoured from 206 down to the
Cannonsville Reservoir, one of several huge upstate water reserves managed by the
Dept. of Environmental Protection for New York City’s drinking water. I
threaded through the two prongs of the reservoir’s north end and crossed and
crossed back, just for the fun of it, a municipal works bridge whose
coordinates are in the middle of a many mile diameter lake surface corralled by
mountains crenelated in burnished colors like flames ravaging the forest
canopy. When the loop returned to 206 I was near adventure’s end. Towns became
more robust and active with the easily spotted city antique hunters as I got
nearer to the Catskills border. The East Branch of the Delaware River flanks
the west side of the park preserve and turning south it’s only a short drive on
it before coming to Route 17 where an access ramp thrust me back on the highway
and suddenly, brashly, with the other
cars hurtling who knows where.
October 2003
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