Tea and cookies at the Mohonk Mountain House is a civilized
snack served at 4:00 PM, and savored while sitting in velvet Victorian chairs
before a cozy fire. Today, however, the
management graciously invited the citizenry of New Palz (all of them) to a
day of skating, hiking the trails, and afternoon tea. A generous offering, but when Dave and I
entered the lounge, the dash of hordes desperate for a cup and the surge of
celebrants eager for a sugar cookie convinced us that a walk suited us just as
well.
A stay at this resort is a luxury for the most part beyond
us, but for several years we have taken advantage of a mid-week, pre-holiday
deal that puts an overnight almost within the realm of reasonable. With its dormers and turrets, balconies and
stone arches, porches and picturesque overlooks, the Mountain House is a castle
nestled in the Shawungunk Mountains, like Brigadoon, an oasis from a different
time, a time where we want to be.
Despite the dimming light, Dave and I skirted the lake, leaving
the castle behind us, taking an easy stroll along a wide graveled trail arched over
with evergreens. To our left, massive
blocks of stones scoured from the earth and carried by the glacier jutted from
the steep slope that rose to the ridge. Ahead
and above us, obscured by great profiles of rock with soaring foreheads and protruding
chins, we heard youthful voices laughing and chattering, three teenagers, we
later learned.
“What do you think?” said Dave. “Shall we add ‘rock-climbing’ to our
activities when we tell friends about Mohonk?”
Totally.
Having not done much rock-climbing, or any, we both wore
sneakers. I regretted this, telling Dave I wished he’d worn hiking boots so we
could legitimately call this outing a hike, but rock-climbing? Even better.
Besides, we planned only to clamber up a little ways. Just enough to
claim the activity.
But we got into it.
Kept climbing. And when Dave
called, “Here’s one of the red arrows that marks the trail. Wanna keep going?” I did, so we continued onward, pleased to
have the guidance of those who’d planned the best approach.
Cheerfully, we reached for finger- and toe-holds, and where
there were none, paused to study our options and plan how to progress. At times Dave gave me a boost; other times, I
stretched out a hand to steady him. In
places, we had to scooch through gaps, or heft our butts up onto a grainy surface,
and swing our legs around and up.
All else receded as we scanned the rocks before us, the
chinks and inclines, the heights and spans, to decide the best and safest way
forward and up. It was difficult, but I was
grinning, pleased I could still do this, grateful and awed that I was scaling
these bones of the earth, rocks shunted and lifted and tumbled into place
millions and millions of years ago. Oh, how I need to recall that perspective
as I ruminate and worry about every detail of life.
The light was fading and I yelled ahead to the teenagers,
asking if they knew how much further we had to go.
“Not sure. Close, I
think. I hope,” a young man’s voice
called back.
“Plenty of time before dark,” Dave said. He knows where my head goes.
For this is not the first time we’ve headed out for a walk
that turned into something else, an adventure if one is charitable, sheer
stupidity if one is honest. Years ago,
when I was still on our town’s conservation commission and our malamute Kodiak
was alive and fit, we set out with the dog on a November afternoon, around
4:00… a time we should beware of, it seems. Though the trail was local, it was new to us,
well marked with blue splotches painted eye-level on intermittent
tree-trunks. We marched along with Kody
straining to run, her ears pricked and swiveling.
I always felt guilty with this big girl on a leash. She was majestic, maned, and wolfish, black
and white with a masked face. Bred to
pull sleds, but born, it seemed to me, to howl and run wild. I felt honored to
be her human, and wished more for her than life in a house and at the end of a
leash, but suburbia, hunters, and cars limited her freedom.
For some reason, I’d thought the trail was only a mile or so.
I was mistaken, but when the sun set in
front of us we’d been hoofing for a while and it didn’t make sense to turn
back. Periodically I’d ask Dave, “Are
you nervous?” and he said no every time, which calmed me. But my mind was picturing headlines,
“Conservation Commissioner Lost in the Woods,” the “What a Jerk” part unprinted
but implied. Plus I knew this preserve
backed up on the 750 acres of Trout Brook Valley, which was adjacent to the
even larger Devil’s Den state park. One could wander lost in those woods for
days. Mentally, I whipped up a
full-scale search with dogs and helicopters as I plodded on, craning for a
glimpse of a trail marker, but no longer able to see them in the dark.
It was a glorious night, the sky velvet and star-sparkled, the
constellation Orion overhead, club in hand.
We knew the hunter’s orientation in relation to our house, right above
the mailbox, at this time of year. We’d also
taken note of where the sun went down. In the absence of a compass or Boy Scout
to guide us, we took stock with those elements, and turned to head in the direction
Orion indicated. Having grown up watching
“Lassie,” we also enlisted the dog, saying, “Where’s home, Kody?” When we loosened up on her leash, she pulled as
if she knew the answer, and eventually we spotted the reassuring flash of headlights
along Black Rock Turnpike.
Back on the rock face above Mohonk, we’d long ago lost sight
of the lights of the hotel, but the red arrows were still visible to mark the
way.
Up ahead, we heard a female voice, shrill with alarm, say,
“You’ve got to be kidding. I can’t do
it.”
We heard the exaggerated teasing sighs of her friends, but
I’d registered her remark with concern.
“What is it?” I called.
“The arrow on this rock points straight up.”
Excellent.
Still, I felt some satisfaction that we were closing in on
the kids. I realized it might be because
challenging spots slowed them down, but Dave and I had them by four decades at
least, and I couldn’t help a whisper of pride.
Beyond the exertion, this was a physical puzzle. At times the red arrows were friendly
partners, providing good guidance, easing our way. At others, they mocked us, a joke surely,
pointing up the flat face of a boulder without any visible cracks to cling to,
and I pictured the painter smirking as he slapped that red sneer on the rock. Yet, always we figured out a way up.
Dave was faster, taller, and stronger, but he remained the
rear-guard to protect and sometimes shoulder-boost his flower of a wife.
We could heard
Kyle, Greer, and Todd just ahead, and had ascertained their names through their
taunts and encouragements. Every now and
then we’d glimpsed Greer’s curly head of hair, Kyle’s bearded face and broad
torso in plaid flannel, and Todd, enveloped in his navy blue hoodie. “How much further, do you think?” I said
again, but still, they had no idea.
“Sundown in twenty minutes,” Kyle called, and I inspected
the overhangs around me, finding no comfort in the specter of a night spent,
back to rock, in their shelter, as opposed to our cozy room with its wicker
headboard, snuggly quilt, and convenient bathroom. I refused even to think
about the meals now roasting in ovens and simmering in pans in Mohonk’s
kitchens.
“Shit. I am not climbing that thing.” Greer again.
“Yes, you are,” said Todd.
“What is it?” I said.
The kids were close now, just around the lip of a ledge.
“A ladder. A series
of ladders. Straight up. Kyle, I don’t think you’ll even fit in
there. Too narrow,” said Greer.
Too narrow?
By now, we were in this together. I was grateful the kids were with us on the
mountain, grateful for their company, both in the adventure and in case. And as we rounded the ledge, we saw two feet
disappearing into a crevice above us.
Later we learned this was the “Lemon Squeezer,” a long,
tight crevice with sturdy wooden ladders bolted to one side. As we stood at
their base, I reflected that I would kill my kids if they ever tried anything
like this, much less attempting it in the dark.
“It’s going to be a good story soon,” I said.
Dave, my brave one, my stalwart man, stood beside me as we
eyed that groove in the rock with dismay. Still, the ladders guaranteed footholds and
handholds at regular intervals, a good thing as it was pitch dark once we
climbed inside the crevice.
Muffled grunts, complaints, and nervous laughter accompanied
the kids’ struggle up the rungs. Glimmers of light broke the blackness,
filtering past the bodies crammed into the opening above us, as one of them
turned on a phone flashlight.
It was work, climbing those ladders. Well-smoothed by many hands, the wood of the
rungs was solid and reliable. Reach,
grab a rung, heave, step up: it was crazy, to be doing this, but I felt strong,
capable, and daring. I didn’t want to be stranded on the mountain
that night, but climbing those ladders felt good.
“Thank God! I see the
opening at the top!” It was Greer. “Agh.
The ladder stops short. How do we
get out?”
“You’ll be fine. Press
your feet against one side and inch up,” said Kyle, his voice kind.
More grunts and the sounds of fabric rubbing rock, of
shifting, and shoving… and then hoots of triumphant relief. The kids had shimmied their way out… and Dave
and I were alone, clinging to ladder rungs inside a crevice, on the side of a
mountain, in the dark. But we knew we
were close.
Reach. Grab a
rung. Heave. Step up. “Can you believe we’re doing this?” I could hear the grin of satisfaction, along
with the effort, in Dave’s question.
Then, a bright light, and a head and shoulders silhouetted
against the opening I could now see. “Here, I’ll hand you my phone.”
And I could picture this young man, a stranger, Kyle it was,
lying flat on the rock slab above us in order to stretch an arm far enough into
the crevice so I could reach the phone pinched in his fingertips.
“Oh my god, thank you.
I’m so grateful you’re here, that you came back with the light for us! Are
we near the top?”
“Yep. Almost there.”
With my right hand, I clung to the ladder, while twisting to
the left to angle the phone down to illuminate the rungs below me for Dave. Once he caught up, I threaded my arm between
my body and the rock face in order to hand the light back up to Kyle. He didn’t leave to rejoin his friends, but
waited at the opening, shining the light into the fissure while Dave and I inched,
backs and feet pressed to opposing rock faces, out onto the rock ledge, into
open air, above the wide spread of the Hudson Valley.
P.S. We returned the next day to take pictures in the daylight!
9 comments:
You two kids sure do like an adventure!!!!!
As usual, this is terrific writing! Thanks for sharing your adventure and better still for bringing your readers with you.
Joe M
But how did you get down again? You've left me hanging in the middle of the story. Was there a convenient, easy walk down? xxx
Hi - yes, the trail ends on top of a promontory where there's a tall stone tower, "Sky Top." There are easy walking trails up and down from there which we've done before. You're right - going down the rock route is NOT an option for the return trip! XO
Whew! Glad to hear it, and I did love the article. My son-in-law would love it, I'll send it to him. xxxx
What a fun adventure! I was grinning with you and absolutely felt the thrill with you. xxx Tricia
I am impressed at your bravery and your physical ability to do that climb!I'm jealous because I don't think it's anything I could ever do now.I'm glad the trip down was easier and I'm also glad that you explained why the pictures looked so bright. I love reading about your adventures Lea!
I already knew many elements of this adventure based on earlier chats......but I was still biting my nails throughout! Loved the flashback of your former adventure in Easton with Kodes!
Bet the amenities at Mohonk Mountain House felt that much dreamier. xo
Lea, What a great post. This stuck me as a great metaphor for your wonderful marriage -- all togetherness and teamwork. You and Dave are such a wonderful, loving couple.
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